


Conflict

by the_kings_tail_fin



Category: Cars (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 07:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 90,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14327298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_kings_tail_fin/pseuds/the_kings_tail_fin
Summary: In this AU, the Detroit "Big Three" manufacturers have entered into a war to prove once and for all who's the best, and no one can stop them. Our favorite Piston Cup racers may not be what they seem...This fic is a trilogy, told mostly through Strip's POV, but as more characters are introduced, it becomes more omniscient. Part 1 takes place in the early 1970s, Part 2 in the mid 1980s, and Part 3 in 2006, around the events we see in Cars.





	1. Part 1, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insights into the Detroit War, Part 1. Strip finds himself more and more out of place.

The familiar sound of the reel filled the empty room as the projector flickered to life, projecting a grainy image against the wall above the garage door. _3… 2… 1…_ The colors seemed faded, but the scene, no matter how many times he watched it, was so full of life, so full of excitement, the dull colors seemed as vivid as anything he’d seen in real life.

_“And here you have it, folks. The beginning of the 1951 Piston Cup racing season! It’s sure to be a blast. We’ve got a spectacular line up today here at Thunder Hollow Speedway…”_

The voiceover seemed to fade into the background as the race started. He’d watched this video, heard these words what seemed like a hundred times. He knew them by heart. His focus turned to the racers.

They were incredible. No less than forty cars were racing around this small dirt oval, inches from each other, taking every opportunity to pass each other up, all fighting for the lead. Yet, somehow in this intense competition, there was a comradery of sorts between the racers. It seemed so odd, so completely different from anything he’d ever experienced, but it was real all the same. Things were different in the outside world. What he wouldn’t give to see it.

_“And look at this! It’s the Fabulous Hudson Hornet! This racer showed up in Thomasville a couple months ago, and is – “_

The reel stuttered to a halt as it ran out of tape, as it always had at this part. He scrambled for the next video, replaced the reel in the projector, and set it to play again. Why they never spliced the two together was beyond him. This was the best part!

_3… 2… 1… “… moving up the ranks quickly! These newer cars just seem to be built for this.”_

That shiny blue car with the extravagant livery was rocketing forward from the back of the field, taking every opening he could find. When the others took to the outside of the turns, slowing to prevent themselves from sliding, he never slowed down. The Hornet sailed through those corners with ease, flirting with the inside wall. It was amazing. Ten laps later, it seemed clear no one was going to take that lead from him.

An obnoxious pounding reverberated from the thin metal garage door. He jumped and instinctively pulled the plug on the projector. The garage door opener hummed to life as someone from outside opened it.

“Rise and shine, you – are you seriously watching those old reels again? We have cable, you know.”

He squinted at the sudden influx of white light as it poured into his dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he pushed his box of video reels to the side and carefully placed the projector next to them. They were his only belongings, aside from a few letters and stationery items he used for contacting an outside friend, in that barren white box of a room where he spent most of his down time.

“There’s nothing on TV during the week, Izzy,” he responded to the overly magenta Charger Daytona. “Besides, the only TV we have is in the common room.”

She sighed. What he wasn’t saying was that he wasn’t comfortable in the common room, and she didn’t blame him.

“There’s a race this weekend right? Saturday? Sunday?”

“Sunday, at 2 o’clock,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Tell you what, we’ll get in there, and I’ll watch it with you. They won’t bother you then. Deal?” she offered.

“Really?” he perked up, sitting a few inches higher in his suspension.

“Of course.” She smiled. “I could use something different, too.”

The rumble of nearly a dozen Hemi engines shook the hallway as a steady parade of the colorful winged cars cruised by. Six Charger Daytonas and seven Road Runner Superbirds – they were the ones Chrysler had chosen, “the brigade” as they were called.

“Let’s go, losers! Training time!” yelled the lime green Superbird in the rear of the pack as he passed them, obnoxiously enthusiastic as always.

Izzy rolled her eyes and backed away from the door. “Let’s go, Strip. Maneuverability day.”

He sighed and rolled forward into the stark white hallway. The bright lights that lined the halls of the factory felt invasive, like they were always waiting, watching him, ready to illuminate the path that would lead to his inevitable fate. Chrysler said the lighting was for ‘safety’ reasons. Strip just thought it was because they didn’t believe in natural lighting, and that they wanted to show off their sparkling production environment. All it was doing at that moment was making his dark blue paint look like a black hole against the perfectly polished floor.

The factory itself seemed a mysterious labyrinth. Buildings merged with buildings in such a fashion that the third floor of one would become the sixth floor of another just by going through a doorway. The multilayered security system prevented nearly anyone from entering the heart of the operation, where the new cars were being manufactured. The completely automated process was fortified by wall upon wall of impenetrable materials, decoy buildings, and unorthodox design. This cradle of life had to be protected by any means necessary.

Strip followed his comrades and fellow fighters, behind Izzy. Everyone in front of her happily chatted and laughed for the duration of the ten-minute drive to the practice grounds. He couldn’t figure out why they seemed to look forward to the weekly sessions. Maybe it was just that they really were fighters, that they enjoyed the prospect of a war. Still, he couldn’t understand it.

They arrived at the practice grounds, a square mile of open area between several towering buildings. Ford wouldn’t be able to send their drones to spy on them there without their noticing. It felt safe.

“Alright, team, listen up.” A white and chrome Power Wagon emerged from a door to their left, looking at a clipboard.  “Maneuverability day. Everyone’s favorite.”

There were a couple half-hearted exclamations of excitement, and some intentionally unsubdued sarcastic remarks. Maneuverability day sucked for everyone. It seemed like a simple series of activities that were supposedly designed to sharpen their collective agility, but for a set of high powered, modified, heavy muscle cars, it was much more than that. Rick, the Power Wagon in charge, took initiative to try to fix this issue a couple months beforehand by adding even more modifications. Despite the argument that the extra pieces would only make them heavier, he went forward with it. He was the CEO. He could do whatever he wanted if it meant winning the war he’d helped create.

“Izabel. Melissa. You two are up first,” Rick said, looking through the lineup. “Let’s get crackin’. Here’s what I want you to do…”

It was the same old drill. Everyone already knew what to do - just follow the instructions, and don’t crash.

Strip watched his sister roll to the starting line, next to a red Superbird. They exchanged pleasantries briefly, taunting each other and making bets on who would make it through the course first. It was funny how everyone seemed to like Izzy. She got along fine with Melissa and the others – even Diego, the belligerent green ‘bird from earlier. Strip had spent hours pondering why he wasn’t received the same way. He looked like the rest of them, and had the same capabilities. It could only be one thing – the way Rick treated him was different.

Rick blew the whistle. It was go time.

The sounds of whirring machinery and sliding metal began every training session. Izzy and Melissa triggered their transformation processes to prepare for launch, as Chrysler’s training sessions weren’t executed on the ground, but in the air.

“They’ll never be prepared for this. Chrysler manufactures cars, not planes. GM and Ford will be looking for the enemy on the ground, not in the sky. That’s what will give us the advantage.”

It was the same story repeated again and again. “Chrysler engineering at its finest.” or “Breakthrough of the century.” It seemed so overrated. It wasn’t a breakthrough at all – it was the manipulation of living beings into war machines. Strip tried not to think about the ethical implications of what had happened to them all. The cars on the outside weren’t treated like this.

He watched as Izzy’s paneling slid out of place, making room for two long, wide, but thin wings to protrude from her sides, just below her windows. Her spoiler split in half at the top and folded outwards to resemble a jet plane’s tail fin, while the rest of her body panels inverted and moved into new places. In no more than five seconds, the pink Daytona and the red Superbird had morphed into matte black, plane-like machines that had only the slightest resemblance of their real makes and models. They were no longer Chrysler aero cars. They looked as if a small child had put a puzzle together wrong, forcing pieces together that clearly didn’t fit. Was it functional? Yes, but it wasn’t pretty.

The girls didn’t show it, but the process made them feel slightly sick, as it did to all the rest of the team. It wasn’t natural.

But no matter. They drove down the stretch of flat tarmac toward a ramp, gaining incredible speed with the help of two small jet engines that folded out over their rear wheels. These supplemented their regular combustion engines on the ground when exposed, and kept their bodies airborne once they lifted off.

Around the courtyard they flew, banking hard to avoid the buildings in the corners, but otherwise sticking as close as they could to them. To Rick’s credit, the new sensors and modified wing flaps did help. It was easier to react to random drafts, hard rolls, and flying projectiles than it had been previously.

They executed simultaneous barrel rolls as they roared back over the start/finish line. It was time to bring the rain. Rick hit a button and flipped a couple switches on a nearby control panel. Out across the expanse, several different machines buzzed to life and locked onto their targets. A laser grid sectioned off the airspace, and it was up to Izzy and Melissa to dodge the beams while concurrently evading any other projectiles.

From the ground, it looked impossible, but in the air, there always seemed to be a way out. Up and over, down and about, through the air they tumbled in an almost graceful way. They dodged the soft projectiles with ease, and avoided the burning touch of the lasers with only minimal effort. When they finished that lap, Rick cranked up the intensity. As always, he did this three times per set of flyers.

“Good job, Iz,” Rick said as they finished their trial and landed nearby. “You’re getting better at leaving airspace for others. Melissa, good, but you gotta work on those turns. They gotta be tighter next time.”

“Yes, sir.” They both responded with equal amounts of numbness. Rick would never be completely satisfied with anyone, so neither a compliment nor a piece of criticism from him was ever seriously taken to heart.

Sometimes the worst part about this particular bit of training was the waiting around for everyone else to finish. Hours passed as everyone took their turns, cycling through two at a time. Those that were finished weren’t allowed to go back inside and wait. Watching the others train provided valuable insight, or so they were told. It was boring, that’s what it was.

“Alright. Down to the end,” Rick said in a tone that sounded as eager to be done as they were. “Strip, you’re up. And unless anyone wants to join, you’re flying solo.”

Last, as usual. Why did they choose thirteen combatants? That’s an unlucky, uneven number that never made things easy. Twelve would have been much better, he thought as he rolled forward.

It seemed to happen so much quicker when flying alone. All eyes were on him as the whistle blew. He clenched his teeth and started barreling toward the take-off ramp, deciding to bare his wings and transform while in motion to save time. Focusing on driving also helped him ignore the pain of the shifting parts, but he’d never admit that.

As he lifted into the air, he thought back to the Fabulous Hudson Hornet, racing ever so close to his boundaries. Pouring on the speed, he flew with the tip of his right wing inches from the walls, looking forward and anticipating the apex of the corners he was going to take. This was going to be his fastest lap yet.

The laser grid was different this time. The openings between the strands of red light had different contours than he’d grown accustomed to, but that was okay. _Just picture it’s a field of racers. Look for the openings._ He had an instinct for this, an uncanny ability to tell what was going to be where in the next moment. Cannons shot projectiles toward him in a fairly predictable manner.

It was over in a matter of minutes, or so it felt. Maybe having fun was the trick. Maybe the others had games they played in their minds that made practice fun for them, too.

“Wow.” Rick looked between his scribble covered clipboard and the landing Superbird. “I, uh, hmm. That was good, kid. Real good.”

Strip retracted his wings and returned to normal, approaching the CEO. “Thank you, sir,” he said out of politeness.

The other cars murmured amongst themselves as they eyed him. Izzy looked happy, but the others rolled their eyes and slowly made their way back inside.

“Don’t forget! Big meeting tomorrow!” Rick called after them. “Be there!”

Strip started to follow them, but Rick reached out to stop him. “Hold on there, boy. How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You just shaved four seconds off your best time. And you were the fastest then.”

Strip swallowed forcefully and looked aside. He wasn’t about to tell the truck that controlled nearly every aspect of his life that he’d pretended he was an old racecar.

“I just – it’s instinctual I guess,” he answered. “Sometimes things are easier if you don’t overthink ‘em.”

“Huh.” Rick smiled, a rare sight, as he backed away to return inside. “Well, keep it up, kid. You were made for this.”

_Weren’t we all?_


	2. Part 1, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insights into the Detroit War, part 2. Training routines begin to give way to reality.

“Your time yesterday. Rick seemed impressed with it.”

They drove through the hallways on their way to the boardroom. That’s where all their “big meetings” here held. To avoid running into the others, they’d decided to take the long way around and talk. It wasn’t often they had privacy enough to have heart to hearts.

“Yeah.”

“Well?” she prodded. “I watched you. You behaved differently. It was almost like you didn’t hate it. What gives?”

“I guess I just approached it differently,” Strip shrugged. “Made it seem like more of a self-competition.”

Izzy side-eyed him. “You turned it into a race, didn’t you?”

He nearly misfired as she called him out on it. It felt like such a forbidden topic, it seemed taboo to consider being anything other than a fighter for Chrysler.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“I know you too well,” Izzy laughed a little. “I gotta say, it was impressive. Diego was fuming that you beat him again.”

“Not surprised. You’d think he’d be used to it by now,” he muttered. “I don’t know why he takes those things so seriously.”

“I think it’s what keeps him motivated. We’re all competitive.”

“But why? We’re all on the same side. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What else are we supposed to do?”

He fell silent. They were all specifically built to fight. There had been no choice. They were told it was an honor to be selected to defend Chrysler from the upcoming battles - that it was an honor to die protecting the lives Chrysler made. To lay down one’s life for their country, fair enough. For a friend? Sure.

This was none of that.

“Izzy, look at us.” He couldn’t contain himself. “They built our models to race. That’s what the others on the outside are out doing! They’re out there pushin’ themselves to the limits on a track somewhere, and we’re stuck here, nothin’ more than a bunch of lab rats with freak mods. We’re not supposed to fly. We’re not supposed to be packin’ all this firepower. They can try and turn us into whatever they want, but they can’t take away who we are. And I don’t know if I can live like this forever.”

Izzy’s gaze fell. Some days she could feel it too. Maybe not in terms of racing, but in getting out and making a difference somewhere. She remembered being selected because she wanted to help others. While her preferred way of doing that would have been through becoming a doctor or nurse, they immediately filed her under the “protective/caring” personality label. She’d be good for group morale, they’d said. Her job? Protect the newly manufactured by protecting the manufacturer. It’s motivation, they’d said. It was supposed to motivate her. And it did, just not in the way she would have liked.

“Strip, I don’t know what to say,” she sighed. “I know this war is wrong. The entire premise is a huge load of bull, but we need to –”

“Why should we have to put our lives on the line? Just because a couple manufacturers can’t stop being competitive? We have to go out and _fight to the death_ to prove we’re better?”

“I –” Izzy stopped mid response as they rounded a corner, coming face to face with one of the few actual Chrysler employees. “Hello, Miss Stacey.”

“Hey kids!” the ever-friendly, older Monaco greeted them with a smile. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Strip answered, forcing a happy tone. He had no idea what the weather was like outside, and the concrete corridor they were in didn’t offer any windows. Still, Stacey was too nice of a lady to greet with a disappointing answer.

“You two on your way to Rick’s meeting?” she asked, knowing full well that’s where they were headed.

“Yeah, he said it was important,” Izzy told her.

“Pfft.” Stacey waved her tire as if batting Izzy’s statement to the side. “Important is a relative term, dear. He probably just wants someone to talk at. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Stacey would know. For as long as they’d known her, she’d had some sort of interesting personal relationship with their CEO. She knew Rick better than anyone else, and it was fairly obvious he’d do about anything for her. They weren’t married, but something there was definitely more than platonic.

Professionally, she was head of Public Relations, the only department within the complex that wasn’t automated. Her job was to oversee that every newly manufactured car got adopted into a caring family, so by default, she’d been a mother figure to the fighters ever since they rolled off the line. Every month or so, she’d visit their living quarters, bringing cookies and warm laughs. Those were the most cordial, peaceful moments any of them ever knew.

“I won’t keep you,” Stacey realized she was parked right in their way, and moved over to her side of the hall. “I’ll see you both soon, okay?”

“Okay,” they answered in unison.

She gave them one last smile that seemed tinged with pity as she drove past them, and likewise they continued on their way in silence. The heat behind their former conversation had long been lost.

The boardroom used to seem imposing, but the more time they spent there, the more appealing it became. It was on the top floor of the tallest building on the Chrysler grounds, surrounded by one-way glass. It felt open and freeing.

“It does look nice outside,” Izzy mumbled as she and Strip took their usual positions around the table.

She was right. Strip looked outside and saw a clear blue sky with wispy clouds lazily floating around. Flying up there must be so much better than training in that cramped space between the buildings. And what would be even better? Driving along an open road beneath that sky, tires to the pavement, pushing himself through the air and testing his top speed.

“Alright,” Rick’s voice boomed through Strip’s thoughts as the rest of their present company situated themselves at the table. “First off, thanks for being on time for once. Secondly, updates!”

He backed away and tore the front page off a flip chart to reveal a mess of a chart with intertwined lines all across it. It was supposed to represent each individual’s skill over time, each line’s color correlating with each fighter’s paint. How those lines were mathematically calculable was beyond them all. The trend seemed promising, rising sharply over the last two months. Strip saw his dark blue line peaking an embarrassing distance above the rest, two full units over the dark pink one (Izzy’s) and the lime green one that challenged it.

 _Maybe I should tone it down,_ he thought as Rick pointed out the median, and expressing his wish for it to be a little higher. Somewhere off to his left, Strip could feel Diego’s stare boring into him.

A few tips, pointers, and new expectations later, the CEO got on to the more interesting, albeit frustrating news.

“In all, I think we’re ready,” Rick said confidently. “You’ve all proved you can get in, destroy your targets, and get out without sustaining damage in practice rounds. Real life is going to be different, though. Things might get thrown at you that you’re not prepared for.”

He turned to rip the chart away to reveal a list. “Like this.”

Intelligence had uncovered blueprints for Ford’s answer to Chrysler’s army. They were rough, and didn’t give a lot of detail, but it meant the war was moving forward. The lull they were experiencing could end at any time, and they would have to be ready to fight for real.

“By design, they look to be grounded, normal cars. This leaves us at an advantage in the air, in terms of evasiveness. I’m still banking that we can get in and out of these battles before they ever know what hit them.”

Strip looked at the boxy figures and pictured them coming towards him, guns drawn, ready to take him down. Would he be able to return the favor? He knew he was more than capable. He was quicker and nimbler than any of these guys, and the Chrysler-designed airstrike bombs he was equipped with could devastate an area the size of an small neighborhood. He was second only to Izzy on the shooting range, as well. But could he look another living car in the eyes and kill them?

“It may be a few years out yet, it might be a couple days from now. We don’t know. But I trust that all of you will be able to do the job when it comes.”

_I can’t do that._

_No. I refuse to do that._

He looked around the room at the others, all intently listening to Rick’s speech. Most of them seemed chomping at the bit to see some action. Others didn’t look fazed in the least. Didn’t they realize that they were just pawns in a war that didn’t concern them? A war that the rest of the world would sooner forget?

It was pathetic. The “Big Three” American manufacturers had gotten so riled up over the last decade that they felt the _need_ , not the want, to prove who was best. What better way to do that than through a show of power? The law couldn’t stop them. The government wasn’t about to step in the crosshairs of the very entities that made life as they knew it possible, not when the rest of the nation wasn’t at stake. In fact, laws had been put in place to keep government and law enforcement agencies from intervening in the violence, save in the case of citizen endangerment. But weren’t the fighters citizens, too? Didn’t they have rights? At least the right to choose?

Izzy caught his gaze and gave him a funny look. She knew when his mind went into overdrive, and honestly, he wasn’t terribly good at hiding how he felt. He gathered himself and tried to relax. Rick droned on for another five minutes about expectations and good faith before he moved on to other news.

That meeting didn’t last more than an hour, but it felt like it had dragged on for an eternity. Afterward, the flock of winged cars made their way back to their living quarters quietly, minds full of the prospects for a more exciting future.

Strip felt like he was going to spontaneously explode. He needed to get out, talk to someone, do _anything_ but think about the imposing future. He hurried to his room.

Izzy watched as he shut himself away, and remembered their conversation from earlier. She worried about him. He was the best they had, despite how the others ignored him or treated him with spite. They couldn’t afford to lose him to his own inner demons.

In his room, Strip flipped the light on and drove over to his stack of letters and writing paper. His only friend on the outside, his only connection to the outside world was always a nice escape, even if physically writing letters was the only way they could still keep in contact. They’d been inseparable before Wayne had been adopted out of the factory, and so they swore to keep in touch. Strip picked up a pen and put it to the paper.

_Wayne,_

_Hey man, how’s the job? I guess that business degree really paid for itself, huh? Tell me what’s new._

_You’ll never believe this, but I’m going to get to watch the Daytona 500 this weekend here at the factory. Izzy said she’d watch it with me, and…_


	3. Part 1, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Internal rivalries intensify.

“Ready.”

Strip looked across the courtyard as Rick’s voice came over the radio. Diego was staring back at him from the opposite corner, watching his every move. They were circling the area, no more than two hundred feet above the ground while the rest watched on. It was sparring day according to the calendar.

“Set.”

Weeks had passed since the maneuverability tests, and their training regimen was growing more intense. What better way to practice fighting than to actually spar? Their guns had been loaded with rubber training pellets instead of bullets, which would still hurt, but wouldn’t pierce metal and cause lethal damage.

“Go!”

The goal? Don’t be the first to be shot.

Diego came flying across the courtyard, spraying bullets haphazardly in Strip’s direction. They were easy enough to avoid, but Strip knew something Rick didn’t when he’d paired them up: Diego had a score to settle, and he wasn’t about to play nice.

Strip didn’t mind the added competition, as he was confident he could win, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to. After some consideration, maybe letting Diego think he was better than him would solve some of their social conflicts. But was it worth it? Diego had knocked a couple of the others out of the air before, just to prove a point…

“Don’t let him get to you.”

That’s what Izzy had told him a couple days prior. She said that Diego was just out for attention, that he’ll calm down after he’s forced to fight for real. Strip doubted this. He and the other trainees had been around each other since they were manufactured, and Diego was always vying for more and more praise. It was who he was, regardless of the situation.

Strip swooped up and over his opponent in a corkscrew, coming to a level behind him and starting into a turn to better position himself. He watched as Diego struggled to pull up into a vertical and avoid collision with a wall. Maybe Izzy was right. This wasn’t the time or place to solve their differences.

Diego righted himself once more and saw Strip coming for him. A few precisely placed shots whizzed over his roof, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

“Not today, you don’t,” Diego muttered, altering his trajectory ever so slightly. “This one’s mine.”

It instantly turned into a game of chicken, each of them flying straight toward the other from opposite corners of the training fields, target locked. Strip noticed no shots were being fired, and decided to return the favor. Despite imminent disapproval from Rick, this competition had turned into a test of bravery, if not stupidity.

The space between them eroded quickly. Five, four, three seconds to impact, Strip thought he saw Diego smile. In no more than half a second, Diego had fired three shots, and Strip two in anticipated response. All five of those projectiles found their targets, but something was off. The first two Diego fired off had been followed by their signature dull bang, as were Strip’s shots. But that third one had more of a crack to it. Diego’s eyes widen as he realized what had happened and pulled up, trying to avoid collision.

Strip’s gaze flickered down to his hood. Two dents, yeah that was normal. But where did that gaping hole come from? The world around him suddenly seemed very fluid, and quite small. Shocked from the wound, he forgot about the competition, and started to fall sideways through the air.

As he tipped, the very end of his right wing made contact with the underside of Diego’s, slicing through the outer layer of sheet metal. The loss of structural integrity in addition to the increased G-forces Diego was pulling trying to get out of the way sheared that wing right in half. He violently spiraled the next hundred and fifty feet to the not-so-soft cushion of dirt and grass.

“Pull up!”

“Strip, pull up!”

Upon hearing his name, Strip came to his senses once again. That wasn’t Rick’s voice. It was Izzy’s. He glanced over and saw her driving across the field towards his position, passing Diego’s smoking body on the way.

_Wait. What did she say?_

The ground was getting dangerously close, and so was that building. Blinking to rid his vision of whatever fluid streamed from his hood up to his windshield, he wound his thrusters up for more power and pulled his wing flaps up. It took nearly everything he had left to avoid a straight-on crash, but he managed to get turned around.

That was it – all he could manage. He was leaking something all over the grass beneath him as he tried to land. Was that oil? Transmission fluid? It didn’t matter. He started to lose feeling across his right row of pistons. He nearly laughed as he thought about the irony of what it would be like to die before ever actually fighting the enemy.

He hit the ground hard, leaving a path of uncovered dirt as he plowed through the grass, coming to a stop near the center of the courtyard. He closed his eyes as the pain started to set in. Blocking out the yelling and the rumble of approaching engines, he could hear the wind blowing through the blades of the grass, and a couple crickets nearby. He focused on that, finding it oddly peaceful.

It was chaos for a few minutes. Half the brigade went to check on Diego, who aside from a rudely amputated wing, was functional and in once piece. The rest of them followed Izzy and Rick as they sped towards Strip, the gorier scene and thus more interesting.

“No, I swear to you guys, that wasn’t intentional,” Izzy heard Diego say as she passed. “I don’t like him, but I’d never _kill_ him.”

“I think you just did,” another voice commented. It sounded like Matt, the black and white Daytona.

They could be dealt with later, she told herself. There were more pressing matters. She glanced over at Rick as they approached the crash site, and thought she saw worry through his scowl. She didn’t quite understand why he viewed Strip differently than he did the rest, but she’d never been happier to have that be the case. Maybe there would be hope for him, or maybe the damage wasn’t that bad.

It was that bad. In fact, it looked even worse up close than it had from across the way. Izzy panicked when she saw him sitting so still with his eyes closed, and rushed to his side to nudge him. Rick quickly removed his hood and assessed the damage.

“Eww,” a chorus of disgusted sounds rose from behind Izzy. She glowered at them, but admittedly acknowledged that the damage was nauseating to look at.

“Header’s busted all to hell. Valve cover’s shattered. That spark plug wire is just _gone._ ” Rick mumbled everything that was immediately obvious to him. He’d always told them saying things aloud made them easier for him to remember.

“Hey,” Izzy prodded her brother again with another gentle push. “Can you hear me? Come on. Wake up.”

“Hmm.” Her voice pulled him out of his dream-like state. He cracked his eyes open and seemed disturbed to be looking at the mess inside him.

“You take my hood off, _and_ you take me out of my happy place?” he grumbled weakly, looking around. “What is wrong with you guys?”

Izzy rolled backward and sighed with relief. Rick cast a sideways glance at her and shook himself.

“Don’t relax yet. We’re not out of the woods here. Strip, can you change back? The wings are gonna make it hard to get you back inside,” Rick asked quickly, but clearly.

Strip winced but managed to withdraw all his flying aids. Luckily, his rough landing didn’t cause any further damage aside from some cosmetic scratches. As the last panel slid back into place, his vision started to go black around the edges.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he said as the vertigo from the change peaked.

“You can’t afford to do that,” Rick told him. “You’ve lost too much oil. Keep it down.”

He moaned and closed his eyes again. The voices swirled around him as he tried to find something, any one thing to set his focus on that wasn’t pain. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of a tow hook being secured to his frame.

It all seemed like a nice, long nap – the kind where when you fall asleep, you lose track of all time and sense of location. Everything behind that curtain of darkness was calming, comforting even.

However, like all good things, even that ended. Strip awoke feeling rather cold and stiff, and somehow _different_. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was all too familiar with this room.

He sat in the middle of a wide space with racks of tools arranged neatly and orderly around him. This was where they’d given them all the wings and jet engines. This was where every modification, tune-up, or crucial repair was made. He _hated_ this place.

“You awake, kiddo?” a sweet voice came around from behind him.

He jumped, having been under the assumption he was alone. He glanced downward at his hood. No dents, no hole. There was even a fresh coat of paint.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse from lack of use. “Hey, Stacey.”

“You feelin’ better?” she asked with a gentle smile, driving around to park in front of him, facing him. “I brought you some oil. Thought you might be thirsty.”

She slid the can in front of him so he wouldn’t have to move as the anesthetic wore off. He took a drink, and man was she right, he _was_ thirsty. She watched patiently while he sucked it down.

“Thank you,” he said when he was done. “That was good.”

She nodded once and sank into her suspension a little, getting comfortable. Strip noticed and wondered what she wanted to talk about, as she only did that when she was settling in for a conversation.

“Are you sure you feel okay?” she asked again, and he realized he hadn’t answered.

“Yeah, yeah much better,” he said, moving around a little and starting his engine. It turned over a couple times, but roared to life as always. “A little weird, but it might be the drugs.”

“We had to pull your old engine and give you a new one,” she informed him. “There was too much work to be done to just leave it in and work on it. It’s gotta be rebuilt. Thought it’d be easier to do a complete swap.”

“Ah, okay,” he realized, shutting it off. That explained the weird feeling. This engine lacked the seasoned feel his old one did, but it was the same in all other regards. He’d break it in eventually. “Yeah it seems fine.”

“Great!” she seemed genuinely happy to hear it.

“So what happened?” Strip asked, thinking back to the incident. “It seemed… sudden.”

Stacey shrugged. “All we know is that Diego fired a live bullet. We don’t know how it got loaded into his gun. Shouldn’t have been possible. We’re beginning to wonder if it was intentional.”

Strip frowned, remembering the look on Diego’s face after they’d realized what had happened. “I don’t think it was on purpose. He seemed as surprised as I was. Probably just got mixed in with the fakes.”

“That’s what everyone else is sayin’, but… I dunno. There’s something about him I don’t trust,” she pondered. “But that’s between you and me. I didn’t say that.”

Strip forced a smile. “Yeah, I know. He wants something. I don’t think my death is it, though.”

Her face fell and she stared at the ground for a brief moment, rubbing her front left tire across a seam in the floor. Confused by her sudden change in demeanor, Strip suddenly wondered why she wasn’t here for just a quick visit.

“Is somethin’ wrong?” he asked, concerned. “Why’d you really come in here?”

She sighed and looked at him with sad eyes, a sight he’d never seen before. It made him oddly emotional to see the one positive car he regularly interacted with look so down and conflicted.

“I heard you talking to Izzy a few weeks ago in the hallways. Right before we ran into each other. Remember that?” she asked. “I just, I can’t shake it.”

Strip tried to remember which instance she was referring to, as that happened quite a lot. “You mean the lab rat thing?”

“Not just that, the whole conversation,” she said. “I come to work for eight or nine hours a day, and I get to go home afterwards. I can do whatever I want outside of these walls, but you guys, all of you are stuck here. You’re gonna be stuck here until either we win this war or you die.”

She paused for a moment and sniffled, trying not to cry. She looked almost as desperate as he felt. He patiently waited for her to continue.

“Call me stupid, but I never looked at it that way before. None of the others complain about being here and fighting. It’s like they’re willingly employed. But you’re not, not a single one of you. And it’s my fault. I profiled each of you and that’s what Rick made his decision on.”

It was true, and he’d known this. He was chosen for a strange combination of things. He’d registered as having both protective qualities (a basic requirement) and an air of collectedness. They thought he’d be able to keep his cool in tight situations, and that was true. He’d also shown capacity for incredible reflexes and prompt, precise decision making. It was everything they could have wanted.

“We never asked you what you wanted. We just pulled you off the line and started preparing you for all of this. I feel like a monster.”

Strip sat there, silently. He couldn’t tell her it was okay, because it wasn’t. He wanted to comfort her, but her points were all valid. He didn’t know what to do.

“You know,” she started into the sentence with half a laugh. “Rick was furious about you and Diego crashing out there. He said it would take weeks to repair the both of you, all because you wanted to do something stupid. But here we are. It’s only Friday and you’re both fine. He was really worried about you, you know.”

“Why?” That seemed silly. What’s the big deal if you lose one car when you’ve got a dozen backups?

“I talked to him after he calmed down. I think he feels guilty too. About everything, I mean. He was a part of causing this war, right up there with the heads of GM and Ford. Rick couldn’t let his ego down, and look at us. But he’s not a bad guy, and sometimes I think you guys don’t necessarily realize that. Sometimes I think he forgets it, too.”

“Why are you telling me this? There’s nothing we can do to stop it now,” Strip pointed out.

“Maybe not. But I need do something. Strip, I care about you. I care about the rest of the brigade. I don’t want to keep you from experiencing life, not when the possibility of it being so short is at stake.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“On the underside of your hood I placed a sensor. The kind all employees have that lets them in and out of the gate out front.”

“Wait, you’re lettin’ me go?”

“Not letting you go. Just giving you the freedom you need. You can’t stay here your entire life. There’s a world out there. You’re free to explore over the weekends or whenever you get a day without training. I can do that much for you.”

Strip stared at her like she was nuts. “Rick will have your hood on a platter for this.”

“Oh, I can handle him.” She winked, turning to drive out of the room. “You just take care of yourself. Go visit that friend of yours. Wayne, right? Go meet new cars. Just stay safe and try to blend in.”

She was almost out of the room before he remembered his manners. “Hey,” he called to her, rolling forward off the lowered lift he’d been sitting on. “Thank you.”

She stopped briefly and flashed him another smile. “Oh, and don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think you’d make a great racer.”

With that, she left him sitting alone.


	4. Part 1, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom, friends, and racetracks.

“So let me get this straight.” The forest green Gran Fury squinted into the sunlight, trying to see his friend through the glare. “Through some weird chain of events, you get shot, Mother Theresa de la Chrysler starts letting you in and out of the gate, and the first thing you do is fly two hours straight here?”

“Where else was I supposed to go?” Strip shrugged. “I’ve never been outside the gate before.”

Wayne laughed and shook himself in disbelief. “It’s good to see you, man. Even at the crack of dawn on a Saturday. Come on in.”

Strip followed his old best friend into the small house, still jittery from the excitement of the trip. Flying under the cover of night, he was able to make the trip from Michigan to North Carolina in nearly no time at all. The air had been so fresh and pure up above those clouds his general distaste for flying seemed to vanish. And the roads! After he’d landed, the roads he’d driven on to get to Wayne’s countryside home were _beautiful._ They wove in and out of the mountains and were excellent for sport driving. Despite not getting an ounce of sleep the night before, Strip was wide awake with excitement. Everything felt so _new._

“Yeah so this is the living room. That’s the kitchen. That’s my room over there. Oh, and a guest room that’s completely empty. That’s about it – the grand tour,” Wayne pointed out.

Strip looked around and wondered what he would do with a space this big. “I can’t believe you’re out on your own already. It’s been what, less than a year since you were adopted?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I had things I wanted to do. I played my cards right and was able to move out pretty quickly. My parents were okay. We still talk sometimes, but I like being independent.”

Strip nodded, turning back from his brief tour to face his friend, who was intently looking at him. A few seconds passed where neither of them said anything.

“You know, now that I’m here, I honestly have no clue what to do,” Strip admitted.

“Impulsive as ever.” Wayne cracked a smile. “Well lucky for you, I actually have stuff lined up for this weekend. And now, you’re gonna tag along. You need socializin’.”

“Alright, what’s the plan?”

“I think you’ll like it.”

Later that afternoon they drove into the nearby town to meet up with one of Wayne’s college friends at a bar near where they worked. The company they worked for seemed to be the only real business in the town. There was one tall building with a ‘Dinoco’ marquee illuminating the top on the outskirts of a lazy small town. Strip thought it funny that such a big name company would have an office way out in the middle of nowhere.

The name of the bar was the Slim Trim, a little hole-in-the-wall type pub in a refurbished grain silo.  It stood on the edge of a field right across the road from the imposing Dinoco building, and seemed popular. Strip followed Wayne inside to a table in the back corner where a Cadillac no older than they were awaited them.

“Hey, Tex,” Wayne hailed the golden car as he approached the table. “Got someone I want ya to meet.”

The Cadillac looked up from his drink and acknowledged Wayne’s presence with a subtle nod and a warm smile. His paint seemed to shimmer when he moved under the amber light, contrasting with the rustic nature of his cowhide vinyl top and the bull horns attached to his grille.

“Tex, this is my friend from way back in the factory days, Strip Weathers. Strip, this is Tex Dinoco, heir to Dinoco Enterprises.” Wayne introduced them with a bit of his usual unneeded extravagance.

“A friend,” Tex humbly corrected him as he looked at Strip. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Strip responded, moving slightly to the side to make room for a waitress bringing them drinks.

“Hello, darlin’.” She winked at Wayne as she set their drinks in front of them.

“Hey there, sweet pea.” His tone immediately changed into something much softer. “Aimee, this my friend Strip I’ve told you about. Strip, this is my girlfriend, Aimee.”

“Oh, the racecar?” the grey Imperial asked, looking at Strip and gesturing enthusiastically. “Oh, he’s told me all about you.”

Strip tensed a little, but remembered his place. “Ma’am,” he replied respectfully.

“Hey, so business is crazy today, but I’m off at five,” she announced, more toward Wayne and Tex. “We can leave right after I clock out.”

“We’ll be here,” Wayne told her.

She gave him a flirty little nudge in the side as she turned to tend to her other tables. The moment she was gone, Strip glared at Wayne.

“You didn’t tell me you were datin’ someone,” he said.

_You better not have told her anything sensitive_ was the message Wayne received, and rightfully so. Wayne was the only car outside the factory that knew Strip’s secret, but despite first impressions, the Fury was incredibly intelligent. He wouldn’t let information like that just slip out, even to someone he was close to.

“I haven’t told her _everything,_ ” Wayne quickly corrected, trying to stay as vague as possible with Tex listening. “Just that you wanted to be a racer, that’s all.”

Strip relaxed a little, reassured, and took a drink. He trusted Wayne, and always had, but he couldn’t deny his paranoia about being discovered. He’d give _anything_ to be like them, normal.

_Well, the first step towards that is socializing, right?_

“So tell me, how exactly did you two meet?” Strip asked his current company. “I find it hard to believe my boy Wayne here just drove up to a Dinoco and said ‘let’s be friends’.”

Tex chuckled gave Wayne a look. “Well, you ain’t too far off there.”

“You are way off, dude,” Wayne corrected, throwing an accusatory glance back at him.

“Naw, see, we majored in the same thing in school.” Tex waved Wayne’s disapproval away. “We worked together a lot, did a couple projects, and became friends. Managed to get him a position at the old man’s company afterwards. Simple as that.”

“A good position, too,” Wayne added matter-of-factly.

“It was the least I could do,” Tex dismissed. “Whenever the company’s mine, I hope I have a whole lotta cars like you there.”

“So you’re really gonna inherit it?” Strip asked, trying to figure how big the company really was. It had to be the biggest major oil company in America – to think that someone his age already had that sort of business lined up and with promising future was otherworldly.

“That’s what my old man wants,” Tex shrugged. “I’m in no hurry, though. Still got a lot to learn about it.”

“In the meantime, we’re gonna make him pay the tab,” Wayne said to Strip. “Ain’t that right, Tex?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tex agreed with a nonchalance only found in those with unholy amounts of money. “But anyhow. You’re a racer, huh?”

“Uh,” Strip faltered, not expecting to be put on the spot. “No, not really. That’s just kinda a dream.”

Tex narrowed his eyes as if he suspected a lie. “So you’re tellin’ me you wear that spoiler for kicks?”

“I wear it because I can assure you it doesn’t come off,” Strip retorted a bit defensively. He liked his spoiler, even if it did look funny at times. It was more practical than it seemed.

“The most aerodynamic car of the decade, and you ain’t even milkin’ it for what it’s worth,” Tex deduced. “What’s holdin’ you back?”

Strip glanced at Wayne, who looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. It was clear Tex had no idea where he’d come from or what the circumstances of his visit were.

“I, uh, I’m still stuck at the factory up in Michigan. Workin’ for them now,” Strip explained. It wasn’t a lie, necessarily.

“Sounds like a dead end job to me,” Tex commented, the gears starting to turn in his mind.

“You could call it that.”

Wayne cleared his throat, directing their attention back to him as he finished his drink. “So. We got three hours before the fairgrounds open. What’re we gonna go? I could sit here and get snockered now, or I could save it for later. I think I wanna save it for later.”

Tex’s gaze fell and his brow furrowed as he thought. “You boys up for a little drive? I wanna see somethin’.”

A couple phone calls and a half hour later, the three of them were sitting at the end of pit row at the deserted Motor Speedway of the South. There wasn’t another soul in the place aside from the forklift equipping Strip with a brand new set of racing tires.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Strip asked Tex as the forklift finished tightening the lugnuts on his left rear wheel.

“Absolutely,” the Caddy said with a grin. “Now I want you to show me what you got.”

Strip looked ahead of him. The banked turns looked so much steeper in person than they had on the television. He could see the grooves in the track where the racers – real racers! – had worn the asphalt down. For a moment, the quiet sound of the wind through the empty stadium erupted into the roars of fans, and the voices of commentators excitedly announcing a close finish in the making.

“Earth to Weathers,” Wayne called to him as he hesitated. “Come in, wing boy. Tex, I think you broke him.”

“Well?” Tex asked. “We drove all this way.”

Strip snapped back to reality and blinked a couple times. There it was again, the wide open track, and no one around to stop him. He rolled forward, across the line, and up onto the lower groove of the track. He started to accelerate slowly – sixty, seventy miles an hour. He started to feel the downforce his spoiler provided pushing his rear wheels into the pavement. Something clicked.

He rocketed out onto the straightaway, following his groove to the outside, pressing himself for more and more speed. It was exhilarating. The gradient of the banks stopped feeling so steep as his body pressed against it, seemingly altering the force and direction of gravity.  This really _was_ what he was built for.

Three laps in and he was flirting with two hundred miles an hour. He’d seen Bobby Isaac break that very barrier not too long ago, and here he was on a track going as fast as the instant legend. Since most real races were run at around 180, he didn’t push himself any harder. He didn’t need to. His new engine felt great, screaming as it laid the horsepower to the track. Every last bit of this felt so incredibly natural.

He came out of turn two and saw Wayne had taken to the track for fun. Strip grinned and positioned himself to pass on the inside. Wayne wasn’t just any Plymouth Fury – he was a Sport Fury GT, equipped with the 440 and everything. There had been a couple racers just like him on this track, so the potential existed if he wanted to tap into it. Wayne was a businesscar, however, and comfortably cruised at around one-forty.

“I thought the Rapid Transit System was supposed to be fast?” Strip goaded as he zipped by.

Wayne told him to ‘get lost’ in considerably coarser language, watching that tail fin dive into turn three. It was bittersweet, watching his old friend having the time of his life. He knew it was unlikely Strip would ever get to race professionally. Heck, he’d probably wouldn’t get to live long enough to do _any_ job professionally. But that’s what made that moment so great. At least for this short period, he could give his life-long friend the experience he’s always wanted.

Strip let himself have a couple more laps before reining it in and swinging back into pit row. He approached Tex with a revitalized eagerness to race. Tex nodded in approval as he rolled to a stop and cut his engine.

“Not bad at all,” Tex said as if his mind was drifting elsewhere. “Y’ain’t even winded.”

“That was…” he struggled to find the right word. Incredible? Awesome? Exhilarating? It had been all those things and so much more.

“Fitting,” Tex finished for him. “You sure that was your first time on a track?”

“Yeah,” Strip said, looking back down pit row, imagining coming in for a stop, just to get back out there and race more. Dreams were made of that stuff.

“Huh,” the Cadillac seemed too lost in thought to contribute anything else.

“Would you take a look at this guy?” Wayne finally drove up with a conniving half-smile, reaching out and hitting Strip in the side with his front right tire. “What’d you think?”

“Do you have to ask?” Strip responded. “Man, I – I’ve never felt anythin’ like that before.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” his friend said more sincerely. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“While we’re here, you boys want a tour of the grounds?” Tex asked, surfacing from his considerations. “Ain’t every day you get a race track to yourself.”

Strip nodded enthusiastically. Wayne shrugged.

“Why not? Then after that we’ll head back home and watch tonight’s entertainment.”


	5. Part 1, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demolition derbies and a glimpse at the future.

“No, no, no. We gotta sit up top so we can see. I don’t wanna get mud slung on my hood.” Wayne pulled Aimee up the ramp to the top of the stands.

“But I wanna cheer!” she protested.

“Can’t you cheer from up there?” Wayne asked.

“Not where she can hear me!”

Wayne’s mouth turned down into a pout. “Fine. How about the middle?”

Strip followed Aimee as she helped her obviously intoxicated boyfriend drive to the far end of the stands. Tex assured him that such revelries were typical on Saturday nights in this town, but Strip was still very confused. What exactly was it they were watching again?

The sun had just disappeared behind the Dinoco building off in the distance when they’d parked. Wayne cracked open another can that he’d managed to sneak through the fairgrounds’ gate, and started humming an unfamiliar tune. Aimee stole a sip every now and again from him, but didn’t drink so much as to let it affect her. Strip, sandwiched between her and Tex, looked around and tried to figure out what this was.

It wasn’t a rodeo. There weren’t any animals around, which seemed odd for what he knew about county fairs. It wasn’t a race, because the field down below them, while oval in shape, was far too muddy to offer any real track. And around it all, excited, inebriated cars were settling in for a night of entertainment.

“So, uh, what is this again?” Strip asked Tex.

“What, you ain’t never been to a derby, either?” Tex asked, taken aback. “Boy, you need to get out more.”

“What?” Aimee asked in disbelief. “Are you kiddin’? Oh, Strip, you are gonna love this.”

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is.”

“Alright, so it’s super simple.” Aimee put down Wayne’s drink and began a light-hearted, country lesson on demolition derbies. “That field down there? The officials over there are gonna let in bunch of competitors here before long. Once you hear the shot go off, there are no rules. The only goal is to be the last car standin’.”

“They’re gonna crash into each other until they can’t drive no more,” Tex clarified. “Ain’t nothin’ more fun than watchin’ a bunch of idiots wreck themselves.”

“Hey, now,” Aimee looked offended.

“Sorry, Aimee. You know what I mean.”

The speakers crackled to life as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The announcer’s booming voice reverberated so poorly across the fairgrounds, Strip didn’t understand a word he said. Whatever it’d been, it must have been exciting, because everyone else was cheering.

A line of beat up cars entered the muddy field and took positions around the edge, facing the center. The announcer stated their names as they entered through the gap in the concrete barrier at the far end, and different patches of the crowd situated around the field would cheer. Strip wondered how some of these cars were still functional. They had bent frames, lopsided suspension, and an astonishing lack of bodywork.

“Wooo!” Aimee screamed, jumping up and down as they called the last contestant to the track. “That’s my sister! Go Lynda!”

Strip flinched at the sudden exclamation. Aimee’s sweet voice seemed capable of pitches higher than a spooling jet engine. She reached out, tapped him on the side, and excitedly pointed to the silver station wagon that had just joined the fray.

“That’s her!” she repeated.

“Oh?” Strip was surprised. Aimee’s sister didn’t look like the other derby cars. They were all older, rusty, and worn. She was so young, and still had that new car shine to her. He could only make out a couple major dents and scratches.

“Prepare to lose your hearin’,” Tex leaned over and warned him. “Aimee likes to scream a lot.”

Boy was he right. The second they fired that shot off into the air, Aimee took to hootin’ and hollerin’ like he’d never seen. But that wasn’t anything compared to the chaos that erupted on the field below. Cars were ramming into each other with a vengeance, flipping each other over, pushing each other into other competitors. One car even flipped over the barrier and landed shiny side down in a drainage ditch. Even from so far away from the field, it was easy to see they were having a blast doing it.

Strip kept a watch on Aimee’s sister, Lynda. She was by far the youngest, and one of only three or four girls down there. He would have thought she wouldn’t stand a chance against these older, heavier cars, but she was holding her own. In fact, she was doing more than that. She was _annihilating_ them, and looking good doing it.

He watched her play chicken with a rusted Bel Air, only to dodge to the right at the last second, catch him in the front bumper with her side, and use his own momentum to flip him over. Aimee screamed and laughed in support. There was no denying her skill was impressive.

It came down to the end, and Lynda and some other twisted heap of a veteran were all that were left. They stared each other down across the sea of wreckage between them.

“Come on, you can do it!” Aimee hollered.

Lynda looked up at her sister, smiled, and braced herself against whatever traction she could find. This old Buick was going down.

Strip found himself on edge as she charged the Roadmaster. The Buick hesitated, as if he didn’t want to wreck the younger car, but he couldn’t just back out and let her win. He went for her, clearly intending on straight up running her into the ground. One good ram in the side would totally incapacitate her.

What happened next was talked about for days in that small town. Lynda braked, spun completely around, and kicked it into reverse. The Buick’s twisted frame made it hard for him to drive in a straight line, and he kept correcting to the left as he came for her. The warp in his frame lifted his bumper up off the ground about a foot higher than it was supposed to be, and that was his downfall. Lynda reversed into him, caught the underside of his bumper right above her trim line on her right side, and sent him toppling over as if he’d just hit a one-sided ramp.

The crowd cheered her on as they dubbed her the champion, but she wasn’t done. For added flair, she made a small circle around him, and rammed him one last time straight in the undercarriage, knocking him over onto his roof.

“Yeah, that’s my girl!” Aimee shouted.

Tex offered out a big ‘yeehaw’ and even lightweight Wayne, who was starting to fall asleep, hollered something unintelligible. Strip felt excited as well, but since he didn’t know her, he stayed silent. Some sort of feeling in the back of his mind came to his attention as he watched her take a victory lap around the field, something he’d never felt before. He had no idea what it was, but it felt like an itch that needed to be scratched.

“I wanna go to sleep now.” Wayne leaned against Aimee and prodded her to start moving. “Time to go home.”

Aimee rolled her eyes. “Alright. I guess I’ll drive with you to keep you from hurtin’ yourself.”

Strip looked over at his best friend, all slouched over against Aimee. He could remember the first time Wayne got his tires on a pint of high grade. It culminated in an intense argument with the TV over a penalty at last year’s Dinoco 400, and ended with him passed out in the middle of the floor. Not much had changed, apparently.

Tex led the way down the stands with Strip on his tail as Aimee helped Wayne along behind them. Various tow trucks and wreckers assisted the immobilized derby cars, towing them away to the shops for their weekly repairs.

“Hey, hey!” Aimee called to her sister as they passed. “Great win today!”

“Thanks, girl.” Lynda smiled at the group as they approached her. “I was feeling good toda- ”

She cut herself off mid-sentence with a squeak as the resident water tanker emptied the rest of his tank on her, washing all the mud off. He drove away laughing as she sat there, shocked.

“Hank!” she yelled after him. “What’d I tell you about that?”

“Well, at least you’re clean,” Tex chuckled.

“Ye-ah!” Wayne offered. “Ssso, so good. As usual.”

“You’ve been drinkin’, ain’t you?” Lynda looked Wayne over with an unguarded look of disapproval.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take him home,” Aimee whispered embarrassedly, pushing him away. “See you later?”

Lynda nodded understandingly.

“Heyyy, Strip!” Wayne called to his friend as he pulled away. “Mi casa’s tu casa, capiche?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Strip waved him away. “I’ll crash later.”

“I think I’ll head back, too,” Tex yawned. “It’s been a busy week. I hope I’ll see you around more, racecar.”

“Sure thing, Tex,” Strip dismissed him.

As the golden Coupe deVille drove away, Strip suddenly felt very, very alone and quite uncomfortable.

_What do I do? What do I do?_

“So, racecar,” Lynda asked as he hesitated to leave, “you that friend of Wayne’s from the factory?”

“Uh, yeah,” he stuttered. “Sorry, I shoulda introduced myself. Strip Weathers.”

“Lynda Harding. Nice to finally meet you,” she smiled at him. “You know, he used to tell stories about back when you guys hung out a lot.”

 _Oh, Chrysler, no._ His face must have said it all. She laughed.

“Was it the fire alarm thing?” he asked, his voice tight. Had Wayne been telling embarrassing stories all this time?

“Oh, yeah,” she confirmed. “Total evacuation and everything.”

Strip groaned and looked in the direction his friends had gone. Wayne was going to pay for this. How was he supposed to know tire smoke would set off the hallway smoke detectors?

“So, um.” He had to keep talking to her. That little feeling he’d gotten earlier was flaring into something more along the magnitudes of a fire. “That, uh, derby was unlike anythin’ I’d ever seen. The way you took out that last guy? How’d you see that?”

“Oh, well.” She looked down, flattered. “It’s just instinct, really. I like to use what they got against ‘em, make ‘em trip over themselves. Could’ve been better though, I think I busted a taillight.”

_Don’t ask to look, don’t ask to look. Come on, man, just ask her out already. You can do this._

_No you can’t. Don’t do this. What are you thinking?_

“Easy enough fix, right?” he didn’t know where his words were coming from, or why they weren’t stopping. He knew better than to do this. “Would you like to get a drink? I got to meet Tex and Aimee earlier. I’d like to talk to you.”

Internally, he was screaming. This specific action was number two on his personal ‘do not do’ list, right underneath ‘do not die’. He couldn’t afford to get attached to someone on the outside, for both their sakes. That was too dangerous.

But then she smiled again. “You buyin’?”

The Slim Trim was still bustling, even late at night. They found a corner table where the roar of the resident band wasn’t overwhelming, and a couple rounds in, were conversing like old friends. He told her all about his dream of being a racer, and that box of old video reels he’d taken from the Chrysler library. He held no reserve describing what he’d felt on that racetrack earlier that day. She listened intently, admiring his enthusiasm.

In return, she told him all about her family, about how she and her sister were the breadwinners for their parents. She didn’t just derby for fun (though that was part of it), she did it for a reliable paycheck and that’s why she had to be so smart about it. She had to win. There wasn’t much of a choice.

The bartender shouted last call after what felt like only a few short moments. Strip looked at the clock. It was two in the morning, how had that happened? Had they really been talking that long? Lynda said she probably should have been home hours ago, and motioned toward the door. Strip paid off their tab, grateful that at least he got paid to be of service to the manufacturer, and followed her outside.

“Mind if I drive you home?” he asked as they slowly rolled toward the empty street.

“I’d like that,” she said with a slight smile.

He didn’t know where they were going as they puttered along, side-by-side on the street, but he followed her lead down several streets. It seemed after a while that they might be going in circles, but he didn’t mind. It had to be intentional.

“So why haven’t I seen you around before?” she asked. “I mean, I know Michigan’s a long way away, but it’s been months since Wayne came to town. Is this really the first time you’ve come down here?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s, uh, just a thing about working for the manufacturer. It can be kinda hard to get away sometimes.”

“What do you do up there?”

He gritted his teeth, trying to come up with a convincing answer. “It’s specialized work. Company confidential, and all.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry for askin’.”

“No, it’s fine.”

She was silent for a moment as they turned a corner onto yet another street. He looked over at her, shining in the streetlights. Dents, scratches, and all, she was beautiful. He could feel his soul slipping into oblivion.

“I think, though, that I’ll have a lot more free time. Time to get away, I mean,” he mentioned. “The schedule changed a bit recently.”

“Really?” she perked up a little. “Do you think you’ll visit again?”

“Of course.” His mind raced for something else to make it more concrete. “Company pays for airfare. It’s only a two hour flight.”

This was true. At the factory, he didn’t have to pay for fuel, so technically they did finance his flight.

“Wow.” She seemed impressed. “Killer benefits.”

He winced at her phrasing. Those two words were more accurate than she’d ever know. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

She sighed as she pulled over in front of a house at the end of the street. “This is it.”

Strip looked at the simple, white house. A bit run down, but compared to the neighboring places, not bad at all.

“Hey, thanks for taking me out. And driving me back.” She turned to face him, smiling.

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. “Anytime.”

“Next time you’re in town, let me know!” she said. “We can make plans to go do something, if you want.”

He smiled. “Got plans for next Saturday?”

“I guess I do now.”

For a couple seconds, they looked into each other’s eyes. Strip could feel the butterflies in his carburetor doing some wonky stuff, unable to stay still.

“I’ll be at Wayne’s house by noon,” he said, beginning to back away into the street.

“I’ll be there.” she promised, turning toward her house. “’Night!”

“Night,” he said, slowly pulling away.

As soon as he lost sight of her in his rearview, he gunned it toward Wayne’s house. He needed to talk to someone he had no secrets with, and he needed to do it _right then._

He should have known his ever-reliable friend would be out of service for the rest of the night. Strip barged through the front door to find Wayne sleeping peacefully, passed out in the middle of the living room floor. From experience, he knew there would be no waking this guy up, so he rummaged around the kitchen for something to write with.

_I’ll be back next weekend. Gotta run._

_-S_

He left the note on the kitchen table and went back outside. There was no way he could sleep after the experience he just had, and so decided to take to the air, on a mission to go find the only other car he could talk to.

There wasn’t a soul awake in the factory when he returned, and the sun hadn’t even risen. Strip zipped through the living quarters, found Izzy’s room, and burst in without so much as knocking. She jerked awake, eyes wide and confused.

“Izzy! Wake up! I need your help,” he hissed through his teeth in a half whisper.

She glanced at the clock. It was five in the morning. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s wrong? You weren’t around at all yesterday.” She drove toward him a bit and started looking him over, worried.

“I met a girl. I need help.”

“ _What._ ”


	6. Part 1, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escalating tensions finally snap. Ultimatums are reached.

Strip neatly stacked his pile of received letters in the corner of his room and hid them under the box of film reels. Later that night he’d write another one and send it. It gave him something to look forward to in between his weekends of freedom, and something to think about during the day. These last few months had been incredibly fulfilling.

Every Saturday morning he’d fly to North Carolina, and every Sunday night he’d return. Wayne and company introduced him to something new each weekend, everything from bonfires at night to the state fair. Who knew that putting a marshmallow on a stick and roasting it would result in such a tasty treat? He hadn’t known that.

And Lynda. He’d fallen for her harder than his last crash. They spent every spare moment they could with each other, inside and outside group settings. She showed him the stars, and the constellations she’d made up on her own. She taught him how to catch lightning bugs in a jar at night just for the fun of it. They parked close to each other on bonfire nights, not really saying anything, just enjoying each other’s company. How was he supposed to know that genuine shows of affection would be so darn intoxicating? In the few months that they’d known each other, their correspondence had already greatly outnumbered the letters he and Wayne had sent over the past year, keeping in touch. These letters were treasures.

Of course he couldn’t stop catching slack for any of his recent developments. While Izzy was the only one at the factory that knew about his newly founded relationship, her commentary was more than enough to keep him preoccupied. “You left for _one day_. One day!” “You’re gonna get your heart broken, I hope you know that.” “Stop worrying about being perfect, just be yourself.” It was a constant back and forth between ridicule and actual advice, but he didn’t mind. Either way, she was still kind to him and supported him, unlike the others.

It quickly became obvious that Strip had been granted privileges the others didn’t have. It wasn’t that they wanted what he had, as they were content working and training, hanging around each other. It was simply the fact that his privileges further differentiated him from them, and according to the rumors, “the winner gets to do what they want”. Diego wanted nothing more than to take that from him, and to win their nonexistent competition.

Having secured his belongings, Strip exited his room and moseyed around a bend in the hallway to Izzy’s room. Every Wednesday at about this time they went on their weekly drive around the premises to talk, and this week, he actually had something to talk about that wasn’t complaining.

“Going somewhere?” a sudden wall of Lime Light green cut him off.

“What do you want, Diego?” Strip sighed, agitated.

The other Superbird smiled and turned to face him. “Oh, nothing, I just wanted to say that was a heck of a match you had with Matt yesterday on the training grounds. He’s still complaining about an aching control arm.”

“I am not!” a voice shouted from across the adjacent common room. Strip looked over and counted ten cars – every member of the brigade except Izzy, milling aimlessly around the room. Something didn’t feel right. There were too many watchful eyes.

“I just wanted to ask what that’s like,” Diego continued, an edge creeping into his voice. “What’s it like to win all the time?”

“It’s not a competition,” Strip said firmly. “No one here is winnin’ anything. It’s training. We’re doing what we were built for.”

“Is that so?” Diego mused, narrowing his eyes. “Then tell me, why are we all always being compared to each other?”

The common room had grown silent, and all eyes were on them. Strip hesitated, choosing his words and wishing Izzy was there. She’d put them all in their places. They’d listen to her.

“It’s statistics, man. Math,” Strip shrugged. “Not that I expect you to understand that, but it helps Rick gauge our performance. It’s not personal. Now if you’ll excuse me I – ”

Strip tried to push his way past, but Diego didn’t take too kindly to insult. In a burst of anger, he rammed Strip into the wall and held him there, trembling with rage. Strip winced as he felt his front fenders buckle, pinched between Diego and the concrete wall. Those dents weren’t going to pull out easily.

“Now you listen, here,” Diego growled. “I am sick and tired of coming in behind you, and I’m half tempted to do something about it.”

“I’m not gonna stop you,” Strip protested, pushing away from the wall. “If you wanna ‘win’, then be better!”

Diego uttered a guttural sound of discontent and jabbed Strip back against the wall. That was enough. Strip saw red for the briefest moment and instantly decided to stop putting up with this dissidence. He pushed away from the wall again and shoved Diego away from him. Rubber squealed on laminate, drowning out the whispers and exclamations from the bystanders.

Before Diego could gain his bearings and react, Strip spun around slammed Diego into the opposing wall with his rear bumper, creating a long horizontal crease down the green car’s side.

“Hey!” a loud, raspy voice shouted from down the hall.

Izzy had surfaced from her room after hearing the ruckus, and was now angrily bearing down on them. Something with that much hot pink paint should never look that angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” she positioned herself between them, looking between her little brother’s dented fenders and Diego’s bumper-shaped crinkle. “I swear, if you don’t grow up, I’m go- ”

A shrill alarm caught everyone off guard, as the floor beneath them shook ever so slightly. _Woop. Woop. Woop._ They’d never actually heard the sound before, but each of them knew exactly what it signaled. Izzy shared a horrified glance with Strip as the lights flickered and the ground rumbled beneath them.

“South gate breach, south gate breach!” Rick’s voice shouted over their internal radios. “Go, go, go!”

“Oh, no,” Izzy whispered. “No, no.”

“Let’s move!”

Silent except for the sound of their engines, the brigade drove out of their building and into the courtyard in two perfect lines of six, with Izzy leading both of them. It was just like any other drill they’d ever done, except this wasn’t staged. Outside, they could hear the whistle of incoming projectiles and to the south, there was a steady plume of smoke.

“Looks like they’re going after building thirty-eight,” Izzy said, having since regained her composure. “That’s one of the warehouses. Deflect and protect.”

Rick had named her the captain for a reason. She was analytical, and more outwardly committed than anyone else was. Cars paid attention to Izzy or paid the price, there was no other alternative.

“Go! Maintain airspace!” she ordered, pointing herself towards the ramp and baring her wings.

_Crrk. Krnnnk._ Izzy looked behind her to the right at the sound of scraping, screeching metal. Strip was trying to transform into his alternate mode, but the damage to his fenders kept the metal from disengaging and sliding into position. It looked painful. Somewhere father back, a similar sound cut through the resonance of nearly two dozen spooling jet engines. Diego’s mechanisms weren’t cooperating either.

“Either you fly, or go back inside,” Izzy barked. “There’s no room for error here.”

Strip moved to the side as the undamaged cars took proper form and drove off towards the ramp. He tried and tried to so the same, but there was a snag somewhere right under the surface of his front right fender.

_This is bad. This is very, very bad._

Above them, a whistle grew louder. He gaze snapped up and instantly he saw the incoming missile, headed for ground zero.

_Guns. Come on, guns. You can do this. Work, dang it._

Maybe it was fear or a sudden rush of adrenaline, but in one final push to expose his weapons and wings, the screaming pieces of metal gave way and slid. _Chrysler_ , it hurt, but with trained precision he’d taken aim, fired, and hit the missile as it came down between the buildings. It exploded with a shockwave of heat and deafening sound, raining smoldering embers on the grass.

Strip took off for the ramp and was in the air in no time at all. He circled once inside the courtyard to gain the speed and altitude he needed for fight, listening to the radio chatter and trying to discern what to do. They had to play the offensive and the defensive equally well if they stood a chance of winning any battle.

Before he rose over the buildings to the south, Strip took one last look at Diego, still struggling on the ground. For a moment, he felt guilty. The look on Diego’s face would be translated as anger and frustration to anyone else that saw it, but Strip saw fear. It was the same fear he felt, and suddenly their whole scuffle felt extremely stupid.

“I think they’re automated,” a voice reported over the radio. “These things ain’t alive. They’re just firing missiles at us.”

“How many?” Rick asked.

“I see five,” someone else said.

Strip finally reached the battleground and saw what they were talking about. They looked like tiny black tanks, half the size of an average car, but each one of them was armed with no less than a dozen ballistic missiles.

“They’re just drawing you out,” Rick concluded rather quickly. “They want to see what we’re capable of before they put any of their own lives on the line. Dispose of them quickly.”

“Daytonas, stay in the air, and shoot the missiles down!” Izzy ordered. “’Birds, run ‘em down by whatever means necessary.”

The top floor of building thirty-eight was in flames as Strip passed it, locking onto the tank farthest to the right. He swooped out of the sky, right over top of it, and dropped one of his two warheads on it. The resulting explosion triggered the detonation of the tank’s remaining unused weapons, creating a massive fireball. Off to his left, three more imploded on themselves as other members of the brigade likewise disposed of them. Just one left.

“Gunfire, on the ground!” Izzy called out. “Diego, fall back! I told you to stay put.”

“Just doin’ my job,” he countered, appearing out of a neighboring building, continuing to fire on the last remaining tank.

“We’ve got this, fall back!”

Diego was too close to the enemy tool for Strip or anyone else to simply dispose of it via airstrike. The rest of the brigade hung in the air, circling like vultures, helpless and unable to act without harming one of their own.

“Bullets ain’t gonna pierce that armor,” someone warned him.

Diego didn’t back down. _Stupid_. The tank hesitated as he berated it with his Gatling guns. The camera on top turned slowly from the building it had been targeting to him, and the click of a pin on a primer was the last thing they heard before the explosion.

Someone screamed. Strip wasn’t sure whom. He watched in revulsion as the tank’s missile disengaged and flew a new course. Shots were fired from above, but none of them hit their target. Diego’s face froze in sudden realization a moment before he disappeared in a ball of raging fire. Shrapnel flew. Static filled their radio frequency and eventually went silent. Someone finished the last tank off.

More silence.

“Report,” Rick demanded after several seconds of nothing.

No one answered.

“Izzy, report!” he ordered.

“Send in the fire department,” her voice wavered and cracked. “We’re done here.”

Rick met them at the door as they landed in the courtyard, folded their wings in, and filed inside. He looked confused, as if he expected celebrations instead of empty or tear-filled faces. He counted them.

“Wait.” He rolled back a little as the last car rolled through the door. “Where’s - ?”

No one wanted to say it.

“He’s gone, Rick.” Someone did.

They continued past their stunned CEO in silence, single file back to their rooms. There was nothing else to do.

Strip took up the rear of the procession, numb. He couldn’t shake the look on Diego’s face before the missile intercepted him. The fear they shared had been one and the same. They weren’t all that different, really, just two cars thrust into an unforgiving world that didn’t seem to care at all about what happened to them.

Well, there was only one of them, now.

Strip made a turn instead of following the brigade back. He didn’t want to be around anyone. Aimlessly, he wandered through the halls until he heard another engine approaching him from behind. Izzy was following him with a worried look. He pulled over and waited for her.

At first, neither of them said anything. There weren’t words to describe how they felt. Their very first battle had ended in a death, and they weren’t even fighting real cars yet. How ridiculous was that? They’d trained harder than that. They knew better than that.

“I’m sorry, Izzy,” Strip said quietly. “It was my fault.”

“What?” she asked incredulously. “Don’t be silly, you couldn’t do a thing about it.”

“He couldn’t fly because I crashed into him. He had to fight on the ground because I disabled him. I lost my temper, and we lost him.”

There were tears in Izzy’s eyes as she reached out to touch him.

“No,” she said firmly, though her voice was still struggling not to break. “Listen to me, Strip. He died because he didn’t follow orders. Had he gone back inside like I told him to, that wouldn’t have happened. He made a mistake, and paid for it. That’s no fault of yours.”

Strip didn’t respond. He knew she was right, but that didn’t spare him of the guilt he felt. Slowly, he started driving again.

“Where are you going?” Izzy asked, reluctant to follow.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I can’t stay here.”

He ended up in bodywork, getting those crumpled fenders replaced. The machines doing the repairs hummed as they worked around him. A single TV was playing on the opposite side of the room, a nicety Rick had once added for those stuck in the bodywork booth for an extended time.

It wasn’t such a blessing this time. It was tuned to the news channel, and Strip hadn’t thought to change it before being locked down in the booth. It showed replay after replay of the battle they’d just fought. The local new crews were having a heyday with it.

“… pointless violence in Auburn Hills. Ford is the suspected instigator…”

“It may have been a win for Chrysler today, Carol, but at what cost? More details to come…”

“… billowing fires were finally put out by the resident fire department here at Chrysler. It’s suspected that nearly thirteen million dollars’ worth of parts burnt within the building…”

“… could be the start of something much bigger, and much more dangerous. Citizens are now expressing concern for their livelihoods, coming to you live from… “

Strip closed his eyes as the machine tack welded a new panel into place. The sting of the molten metal was miniscule compared to the sight of explosions and burning buildings, but even with eyes closed, he could still see them. Those, and one very frightened face.

Suddenly, the TV turned off, forcing Strip to open his eyes. The machine had just finished applying the last coat of primer when it switched off as well. Funny, Strip thought this machine would apply paint as well.

“Hey,” the familiar voice whispered, coming into view. “Feeling better?”

Strip looked at Stacey with a pained expression. By that time, she had to have known everything.

“Silly question, I know,” she shook herself, apologizing.

“Stacey, I don’t know if I can do this,” he said in the same quiet tone he’d used with Izzy earlier. “No, I know I can’t. I won’t.”

“I know,” she said softly, reaching out and stroking his sanded fender in a motherly fashion. “That’s why I brought you this.”

She pulled out a sealed box from behind her. “I put all your video tapes and letters in here. Izzy told me they were important. You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

Strip looked at the box, eyes widening. Stacey smiled at him, but the smile couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Pop your hood. I need to do something.” She punched a few codes into the machine’s nearby control panel.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he was on the borderline of panic. “I – ow!”

The robotic arms of the machine had popped his hood open for him, reached into his engine bay, and pulled out a small box with wires dangling from it all before he could react. He slammed his hood closed, highly alert and feeling somewhat violated.

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone warning.

“Relax,” Stacey said. “It’s your tracker. Without it Rick won’t be able to track where you are anymore.”

“Are you kickin’ me out?” he wondered aloud, looking at his box of belongings, only half of which were technically his.

“No, don’t be silly.” Stacey waved his concern away. “You’re welcome to come back and stay whenever you want. But I don’t think you want that, do you?”

She was freeing him, but why? He’d done nothing to earn this. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. His mind raced as she placed the box in his trunk for him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked as she came back around.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you, too. This is your chance to choose what you want to do.”

“What about the others?” It wasn’t fair to let him go and keep the others here, was it?

“No one’s stopping them from leaving. They stay here by choice. I’ll watch out for them, and help if the time comes, but right now, you need to fly like the wind,” she said with a sudden sense of urgency. “Go and get as far away from this as you can. We’ll be fine.”

_Get out before someone can stop you._ That’s what she’d meant. Strip rolled out of the booth, wary, but made a line for the door. Stacey watched him go, but didn’t move. He stopped and turned back to thank her, but what he said wasn’t planned.

“Tell Izzy she’s a good leader, will you?” he asked. “Tell her she knows where to find me if she needs me.”

The Monaco smiled once more and nodded. “Now, go on.”

He went.


	7. Part 1, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more secrets.

The Appalachians were the most welcome sight as it grew dark that evening. Strip landed on a desolate stretch of road near the top of one of the peaks and drove, hoping that would be the last time he’d ever have to use his own wings. He pondered how much it would cost to get them removed.

The mountain air was as refreshing as ever, and the extended drive gave him time to think. What was he to do now? He had no job, no home of his own. Sure, Wayne would probably let him use that guest room in his house, but that wouldn’t last forever. He wouldn’t want it to. And Lynda, what was he supposed to tell her? He hated keeping her in the dark.

He reached the outskirts of the only town he was familiar with right at dusk. As he rounded the last corner on the only highway that led in and out of the town, a familiar pair of headlights passed him. His tires squealed against the pavement as he braked and slung himself into the opposing lane to follow her.

Alarmed, Lynda slowed down and pulled over onto a gravel patch on the side of the road.

“What are you doing out here on a Wednesday?” she asked as she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened as she noticed his primer-covered fenders and patchwork paint job. “Strip, what happened? Are you okay?”

He couldn’t say ‘yes’, and he didn’t want to admit ‘no’. His gaze flickered around like he was looking for something, but he didn’t know what.

“I really need to talk to you,” he said, audibly nervous. “You’re not busy, are you?”

“No, no.” She shook herself. “Just goin’ out for a little drive before settlin’ in for the night. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“Is there some place private we can go?” he looked around again, paranoid.

Lynda thought for a moment. “Yeah, come on, follow me.”

Up the road a little ways, they exited the road on an overgrown path that led through a thick patch of forest. A couple hundred yards later, it opened up into a nice grassy area. It looked like there had once been a house there, as the foundation blocks were still laid in the ground. There was no way anyone from the town or the nearby road would ever see them there.

Lynda flipped her lights off and turned toward him. He snapped his shut as well and observed the area.

“Talk to me, what’s goin’ on?” she prompted. “You’re scarin’ me.”

“Lynda, I haven’t been straight with you this whole time,” he jumped straight to the point, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t contain it anymore.

She looked hurt, but didn’t move. He saw the look in her eyes and knew he’d never forgive himself if what he was about to tell her upset her. He prayed this wouldn’t be the end – he needed her. He needed someone he could trust, someone that would understand.

“What do you mean?” she asked, watching him rile himself up.

“That job at the factory I told you I had,” he blurted. “It wasn’t voluntary. I didn’t want to be there, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to do what they told me to survive.”

She frowned. “I’m not followin’ you.”

He tried to collect his thoughts in a way that made sense, but they were too jumbled. “Did you watch the news today?”

“Yeah, I saw the attack,” she said. “It looked terrible. You weren’t in that buildin’, were you? Is that what happened?”

“No,” he shook himself. “I was one of the guys that took out the tanks. I’m a fighter, Lyn. I didn’t wanna be, but that’s what they made me. Look.”

He closed his eyes and forced himself to convert into his aerial mode. Lynda watched with shock and astonishment as he turned into one of those flying machines she’d seen earlier that day. In the dying light, his matte black paint almost made him disappear.

“What – ” she whispered.

A feeling of betrayal overtook her. This wasn’t her boyfriend, this was a rugged war machine, one that had undisclosed power. They’d been together how long, and he never felt the need to divulge this information? Tears began to well up across her windshield.

But then he opened his eyes and looked at her. Those were the same gentle, loving eyes she knew, the ones she loved. For the briefest moment she felt as though she saw straight through him. He was scared. He was pleading that she’d understand. This _was_ her sweetheart.

She blinked the tears away and drove up to him to get a closer look.

“Well, I wasn’t expectin’ this,” she admitted after brief hesitation, reaching out to touch his wing. “You’re really a flier?”

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, allowing her to look him over.

She observed the roughness of the seams between his panels in this form. They fit because they were forced to, not by eloquent design. She looked closer. There were scars all over his body.

“What did they do to you?” she whispered so quietly he wondered if she’d said anything at all. He didn’t answer.

He withdrew his wings again and sighed. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t tell you before. I’m not supposed to let anyone know.”

“Hey,” she said in a warmer tone, sidling up beside him and leaning against him. “If it’s classified, it’s classified. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He nodded and leaned against her, drawing comfort from her touch. “I’m glad it didn’t scare you off.”

He felt her shrug. “So my boyfriend can turn into somethin’ that flies, big whoop. Strip, I fell in love with you because of who you are. That guy I know hasn’t changed. All this does is explain to me how you got from here to Michigan and back all the time.”

She felt him sigh a sigh of relief, and laughed a little before growing quiet again. There was still a lot she didn’t understand.

“So why are you here?” she asked. “It’s the middle of the week. I thought you could only come on weekends?”

Strip looked down at his hood. “You remember that nice lady I told you about? The one that always brought us stuff? I was gettin’ this bodywork done and she took my tracker out. Told me to leave if I wanted. She finally gave me a choice, and I’m not going back.”

“Really?” Lynda pulled away with more excitement in her voice than she meant. “So you’ll be stayin’ around here?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he said. “Everything I know is right here.”

“That’s great!” She gave him a quick kiss. “Now I don’t have to wait to see you all the time.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling for the first time that day.

He looked up at the sky and saw the same constellations she’d pointed out a couple weeks prior. They looked different, maybe because he felt different. He couldn’t see the stars in Michigan through the smog in the air, and usually when he looked up at them with Lynda, there was always the disappointing thought that he’d have to leave soon. That feeling was gone now. He’d never have to leave again if he didn’t want.

He wondered if Diego had ever taken the time to try to look at the night sky.

Lynda watched as his brief moment of happiness fell into something else. He looked confused, if not hurt. She shot him an inquisitive look. He looked at his mismatched fenders and sighed.

“Those machines today,” he said, looking at the ground. “They killed my brother.”

“Oh my,” she whispered, horrified. “I am so sorry.”

He shrugged. The guilt had turned to numbness over the course of his journey.

“We didn’t get along at all. Honestly, we _hated_ each other. We had a fight this morning, that’s where this came from.” He gestured to his fenders. “I didn’t get hurt in the battle, but… we couldn’t save him. I guess there’s a couple things I wish I’d been able to show him.”

Lynda looked up at the sky and thought back to the night she’d shown him all her childhood pictures among the stars. It had never occurred to her that somewhere out there was someone who’d never done the same. She drove nearer to him again and gave him an affectionate nudge.

“I’m sure there wasn’t anythin’ you coulda done,” she told him.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, looking back up at the sky. “I just wish I could forget and move on already.”

“You don’t have to forget in order to move on,” she pointed out. “Sometimes it’s better to remember the past, prevent it from happenin’ again. Movin’ on will happen on its own.”

He looked over at her and smiled. “Why you always gotta do that?”

“Do what?” she almost sounded offended.

“Say things that make me like you more.”

They casually drove back into town, making their way towards Wayne’s house. There wasn’t much work to be found in this town, but Strip was banking on his connection with Tex. Maybe there was something basic he could do in the Dinoco building to get him by until he found something he enjoyed doing.

The bells from the single church tower in town were striking eight in the distance as they pulled onto Wayne’s front porch. Inside, Strip could see the TV on with the same old recordings playing on the news channel. The country wasn’t taking very kindly to the violence.

Lynda reached out and rang the doorbell.

“Come in!” Wayne shouted from within. “Door’s open.”

Strip nosed the door open and found Wayne in the kitchen, who took one look at him and breathed a sigh of relief. Lynda squeezed through behind him and went to change the channel.

“You look like scrap, man, but I’m glad you’re alive.” Wayne came over from washing a cup to give his buddy a slap on the side. “Had me worried.”

Only then did it seem like he saw Lynda in the background, and caught his tongue. “Snap, sorry, I – ”

“It’s alright,” Strip assured him. “I told her.”

“Really?” Wayne looked at Lynda. “So you know about all the weird bits and you’re still hanging around this guy?”

“I’m not critically judgmental, like _someone_ ,” she quipped.

“I’m jokin’, I’m jokin’,” Wayne defended.

“That doesn’t mean you can go around telling others,” Strip reminded him. “I, uh, I’m trying to lay low for a while.”

“Dude, they track your every move.”

“Not anymore,” Strip corrected. “Stacey took my tracker out. Said I could leave if I wanted.”

“You’re kiddin’ me, right?” the Fury asked in disbelief. “They put all that research into you and they let you drive right out the front door?”

“I took the back way out, but yeah,” he admitted. “I think the guilt was startin’ to get to her. Especially after today.”

“I thought I saw someone bite the bullet on the news segment.” Wayne’s voice dropped as he got more serious. “Who was it?”

“Diego.”

“Hmm.” Wayne looked down and nodded. “Sucks, man. Can’t say I’m surprised though. I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

“Yeah, so I’m out of a place to stay,” Strip changed the subject. “I was hopin’ you’d let me stay here until I get things figured out.”

“Yeah, sure. You can have that empty room over there,” he pointed across the living room. “You sure you don’t wanna stay with Lyn instead?”

“Do you really think my dad would allow that?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m really not too keen on meeting the business end of a shotgun right now,” Strip explained, casting a glance at her. He’d only met her parents once, and that old New Yorker intimidated him.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind you,” Lynda countered. “You gotta do something stupid before he breaks out the gun.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” Wayne mumbled, returning to finish his dishes.

Before he could reach the sink, the phone rang from across the room.

“Want me to get it?” Lynda asked.

“No, I got it, I got it.” Wayne rushed past her.

Lynda drove over to Strip as Wayne answered the call, and leaned against him.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”

“I’m certainly not gonna make you leave,” he appreciated the gesture. “You don’t think you’ll get in trouble for it?”

“I’m an adult,” she put her tire down to prove a point. “I just haven’t moved out yet. I can do what I want, can’t I?”

“Your call.” He gave her a little nudge. “But you know I wouldn’t mind.”

“I think I’ll stay.”

The warmth he felt from her helped dissipate the numbness. Like a drug, really, her presence remediated pain and offered a true sense of security.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, shifting his weight more evenly across his tires.

In doing so, he remembered the box Stacey had given him with all his belongings. The thought of the old videos excited him ever so slightly.

“Hey, you know those racing films I told you I found?” he asked.

“The ones with the Hornet you always talk about?”

“Yeah, I got to bring those. We can watch them later!”

“Finally, you get to show me ‘the greatest racer that ever lived’,” she said, mocking him playfully. “Let’s do it.”

“Alright.” He started to move towards the guest room in the house, but slowed to a halt as Wayne hung up the phone.

Lynda looked over with concern, glancing at Strip with a question written on her face. Wayne sat in front of the phone, staring at the wall, not moving.

“Hey man, what’s up? Who was that?” Strip asked.

Wayne slowly turned to face them, his brow furrowed as he digested whatever information he’d received.

“Tex,” he said taking an exhausted breath. “It was Tex.”

“Is he alright?” Lynda asked.

“He said a janitor found Old Man Dinoco dead in the exec suite about an hour ago. I don’t know if ‘alright’ is the right word.”


	8. Part 1, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral and an opportunity.

It was oddly sunny at the mountainside graveyard that day, with a crisp breeze swaying the pines around them. The cheerful chirping birds didn’t fit the bill of the occasion at all. Funerals were supposed to feel dull and depressing, but presiding weather didn’t lend to either emotion.

The funeral had been short, with less than a dozen cars invited. Despite the attention from the local press, they managed to have a private ceremony. Some cars said a few kind words, others just offered their sympathies to the last remaining Dinoco. Everyone except the four cars closest to Tex had left already.

They parked, two on either side of him, staring at the heaping pile of fresh dirt. Engine failure, the coroner had said. Thirty years old and something had jammed. Maybe had someone got to him in time, they could have saved him.

“The ol’ hermit liked to work alone,” Tex said after a while, his voice solemn, but showing no signs of deep hurt. “That’s why he built that tower in such a small town. He didn’t much care for the city. We weren’t really that close, y’know. Felt more like business partners than anythin’ else.”

“What’s gonna happen now?” Wayne asked. “Are you really gonna take on the company?”

“That what he would want,” Tex nodded. “I don’t mind. He taught me a lot of what he knew, but I got some fresh ideas. I feel it’s time for a revamp.”

The Cadillac backed away from the grave and turned towards the gate. “No time like the present to start, eh?”

The others quietly followed him, unsure of his true mental state. Tex was always open and genuine. They expected him to be more torn over the situation than he seemed, but no one was brave enough to probe any deeper. Perhaps this was just how he coped. Maybe he and his father really hadn’t been that close at all.

“What d’you have in mind?” Wayne tried to keep him talking.

“Expansion,” Tex answered simply enough. “Dinoco’s spent years throwin’ cash at outfits that ain’t makin’ any revenue. First, I’m gonna reinvest, put that money into somethin’ that’ll really turn a profit. As it grows, we’ll need to have a good marketin’ ploy. And I think I know right where to start.”

“Please tell me you’re gonna do away with that stupid cartoon commercial,” Aimee interjected. “That talking dinosaur thing’s only hurtin’ you. And my eyes.”

“That’ll be the first thing to go, I promise ya that,” Tex chuckled, looking in his rearview mirrors at his friends. “I think I got somethin’ better to be the new face of Dinoco.”

He repositioned his left mirror until he could see that big blue wing among the line up behind him. Tex had always dreamed of being a sponsor at the races, but he never expected a racecar to just fall into his grasp. This was a racecar and a friend. Sure, Strip was a bit inexperienced, had no formal training, and was in dire need of a new coat of paint, but his enthusiasm and raw speed would work to his favor. Combine that with experience over time and there you have it – a perfect racer.

“Hey Strip, how ‘bout a new coat of paint?” Tex called back to him as they pulled out on the road. “Cover up all that primer.”

“Why, is it startin’ to bother you?” Strip asked. He’d gotten his fair share ridicule over the last couple of days for it.

“Naw, I just think you’d look better in Dinoco blue. And maybe a little bit of company livery.”

“Wait, what?”

“Y’ain’t gonna make me go lookin’ for another racer are ya?”

Strip nearly careened into the ditch.

* * *

 

“Well?”

Tex had a way of getting things done according to his timetables, even if that was getting the Piston Cup’s approval to be a sponsor, completing the paperwork, and decorating a racecar all over the course of a month. Come next season, they’d have a qualified team and a place on the circuit with all the other big names.

Strip turned every which way, looking himself over in the wall-sized mirror. He’d just rolled out of the local paint shop after going in blind to Tex’s design ideas. He had to give the businesscar credit – he had good, simple taste. The light blue wasn’t quite as obnoxious as he’d anticipated, and they got his favorite number to look like how he’d specified it. 43 – the general number of racers in a given race, and a nice, prime, indivisible number.

“It’s great,” Strip answered.

‘Great’ was an understatement. Words couldn’t describe how ecstatic he was about an authentic opportunity to race for the Piston Cup and to support his close friend’s company. He looked at the different sponsor stickers plastered to his side. That was a real Piston Cup sticker. A real one!

“It suits you.”

They drove down Main Street together toward the Dinoco building, collecting the stares of the townsfolk as they went. The whispers sounded more like the winds of change than casual conversation.

“How’s it feel?” Tex asked as they passed a group of gossipy women. “Looks like you’re the center of attention.”

“Uh, it’s different,” Strip admitted. He was all about the actual racing part of racing, but the celebrity bit, now that wasn’t going to be so easy.

“You’ll get used to it.”

They entered into the lobby of the town’s only major business and drove to the elevator. The receptionists stared as the two crossed the spotless floor. In the month since Tex officially took ownership of the company, the company stocks had shot through the roof. Everyone regarded the young entrepreneur as if he were some sort of god. Tex didn’t act as if he noticed.

They rode the elevator in silence to the executive level. Strip stared at the logo emblazoned on his hood, and his reflection in the spotless golden elevator doors. He didn’t look like himself, and found it oddly comforting. To think, just a few weeks earlier he’d had nothing.

Up in Tex’s office, they parked before the glass wall that overlooked their town. It looked even smaller from so far up, but it looked happy. It was home. Strip didn’t feel like he’d ever really had a place to call home before.

“Hey, Tex, listen,” he broke the silence. “I don’t mean to get all mushy or anythin’, but I really want you to know how much all this means to me. The sponsorship, the house – everything. Especially after everythin’ I told you.”

Tex cast him a glance and then looked beyond to the pile of volatile materials stacked up in the corner of the room. Earlier that day they’d met before taking Strip to a shop for a few mechanical modifications – racing exhaust, suspension – the works. Realizing he couldn’t be worked on, let alone race, while packing a live bomb and several types of mortars, Strip decided to come clean to his friend.

Tex hadn’t been too surprised. He knew something had to have been up, what with the way Strip acted when he first came to town. It was as if he’d never seen the sun, or the moon, or the beauty of the earth before.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Tex reassured him. “ _What_ you are don’t define _who_ you are. Remember that. And remember you ain’t no charity case, either. You worked for this, and you’re gonna keep workin’ for it. I know you’ll do us proud.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the building’s shadow slowly fall away from the town to be replaced by the shadow of the mountains.

“You know,” Tex continued, “you, Wayne, the girls… you’re all the closest thing I’ve ever had to real family. That’s worth more than any sponsorship, or any house I could ever buy you. Professionally, think of the property as a signin’ bonus. Personally, consider it a thank you.”

He drove behind his desk, brought out a flask of the highest quality oil Dinoco had to offer, and poured two crystal glasses.

“Here’s to Team Dinoco, the future,” he raised one, passing Strip the other.

“I’ll drink to that.” Strip smiled.

Later that evening, Strip milled around his new house, wondering what he was going to do with all the open, empty space. A few days earlier, Tex had handed him the deed to the property and told him to have fun with it. It was a lot of space to keep just a box of old videos and a stack of letters, but in time, he hoped to fill it with trophies and racing memorabilia.

Wayne had given him a couple extra furnishings he had laying around; an old TV, the kind that needed tin foil to get any reception, some glassware, a cheap wall clock, and a side table. Lynda swore up and down the first free day she had she was going to take him shopping.

“I’ll decorate it myself if I have to,” she’d said.

He smiled as he thought about her enthusiasm. His racing opportunity had excited her almost as much as it had him, and she wouldn’t let it go. She’d even wanted to watch the old Hudson Hornet videos with him again a couple nights ago. For the first time ever, he watched those videos and found himself struggling to pay full attention to their every detail with her sitting beside him.

He glanced at the clock. He had an hour before she was supposed to come over. They’d planned a dinner date to celebrate his official employment status, and to a lesser degree, parade around town together. He couldn’t wait to show her his new paint.

He flipped the television on and fiddled with the antennae until he picked up a local station, for background noise more than anything. Of course the first thing that popped onto the screen was that cringe worthy commercial Aimee always complained about. Strip felt he was going to do the world a favor whenever he got around to making a new television ad.

The commercial ended and the intro tune of the local news broadcast crackled through the static speakers.

“We return to you now with the latest news on the events in Michigan. The public is in complete disarray after another attack on the Chrysler Corporation. Coming to you live…”

Strip flinched and turned to pay attention to the screen. The footage showed more tanks, much like the ones he’d helped take out not so long ago, bearing down on the Chelsea Proving Grounds. They showed clips that had surfaced of four low flying plane-like vehicles as they rocketed over the rural outskirts of the Detroit area, and cars screaming as they flew over. Such a sight would rightly strike fear into any unsuspecting bystander.

The flyers immediately put a stop to the assault machines with an unmatched precision air strike, but not before they took out a good portion of the north end of the oval track. It was over quickly.

“It seems Ford needs to step up their game if they want to rightfully compete with Chrysler’s battalion, Mark. Whatever these decoys are made of is no match for their aerial prowess.”

“Indeed, Dorothy. A war, even one as unfit as this, can only be fought by real soldiers. If we want this fight to end, Ford’s going to have to step up and grab the ram by the horns with real soldiers.”

“Meanwhile, GM hasn’t claimed to have made any progress…”

The words faded into background noise as Strip fell into thought. He felt a twinge of guilt not being there. He’d lived his whole life with the responsibility to keep attacks like this at bay, and now he was sitting on the sidelines.

They replayed the airstrike clip again, and upon closer inspection, Strip could tell the plane in the front was Izzy. Her flight patterns and look of determination differentiated her from the rest. He wondered how she was doing, and realized she hadn’t tried to contact him since he left. No news is good news right?

He saw the remnants of the mobile assault drones smoldering against the ground. They were doing just fine without him. With Izzy leading them, they had a chance at winning.

“Good work, sis,” he mumbled to the TV. “You know how to win.”

He changed the channel.


	9. Part 2, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen years later, Strip is dragged back into the world he fought so hard to get away from.

“Looks good, don’t it?” Strip asked, closing the glass door to his trophy case.

“I’m so proud of you,” Lynda smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “You really deserved it this year.”

He sat before his collection of trophies in a room he’d dedicated solely to racing paraphernalia, staring at the shining gold Piston Cup in the center of the case. It had been a good year for Team Dinoco with eighteen wins and their second championship title. This Piston Cup seemed to shine even brighter than the one sitting next to it. Who would have thought he’d get one, let alone two? He certainly never would have guessed.

“You’re gonna have to stop winnin’, or we’re gonna need to get another room,” Lynda joked.

“Better start makin’ plans now, then,” he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop smiling. She could feel the excitement radiating from him as he looked at his prize. The night before, it had been such a close finish. The entire stadium had been on edge as Strip and one of his closest racing friends came out of turn four nose to nose. He’d beaten that Gran Torino by mere inches right at the last moment. What ensued from that point on was nothing more than haphazard celebratory chaos.

Strip thought back as he and Lynda left the trophy room to settle in by the fireplace. The last fifteen years or so were nothing less than perfection. His racing career had taken off from the get go, and he’d finished seventh overall his rookie year. Even his worst season had placed him in the top half of the field. There was talk around the track that he was a legend in the making, but that didn’t faze him. He didn’t need to become a legend. He just wanted to be happy and enjoy the sport, and at that moment, he was right where he wanted to be.

He looked around the house, taking a moment to appreciate it. Lynda had truly made it into a home over the years. It was so open, so warm and welcoming, that he wouldn’t mind staying there forever. He looked over at her. It had been nearly thirteen years since he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said yes. In fact, she’d dropped the derby scene like a bad habit and gotten herself repaired to showroom model status, all for their wedding. He wouldn’t have thought she could have gotten any more beautiful, but she did, and now she followed him to nearly every race. He felt he’d never be able to repay her for all the sacrifices she’d made, all the love and support she’d given him.

The weather was oddly cold that morning as the tail end of autumn fell across the mountains. The trees bordering their secluded property glistened with frozen dew as the leaves changed colors, and the frosty grass looked brittle to the touch. This was Strip’s favorite time of year. As much as he loved racing, these four months of downtime in between seasons were every bit as precious. It was the time of year he could fully focus on his other love.

“So,” he asked, “Is there anythin’ you wanna do this year?”

“Hmm.” Lynda thought, staring at the peaceful flickering flames in the fireplace. “Honestly, I ain’t gave it much thought. This here’s what I look forward to the most.”

She leaned in, put her front fender against his, and closed her eyes. He sank into his suspension to be closer to her and relaxed. She was right. They spent so many nights on the road, sleeping in separate trailers, and so many days at the tracks in the public eye that there didn’t ever seem to be enough alone time.

“Well, then I guess this is what you’ll get.”

That moment stretched to hours as they dozed on and off together, momentarily released from the hectic life that all racers lived most of the year. The fire burned itself out before they felt rested enough to carry on with the day.

“Do you hear that?” Strip asked as something outside broke through the silence.

“Sounds like someone comin’ up the driveway,” Lynda answered. “You invite someone over?”

“No, but that never stopped anyone before,” he grumbled, driving over to look out the front window.

“I don’t recognize the sound,” she added. “It sounds more like you than anyone else we know.”

Through the trees, Strip could see the vague outline of the car coming their way. As it got closer, he could see flashes of pink through the foliage. Cold, icy dread splintered through his frame. Lynda pulled up next to him to look for herself.

She knew enough about her husband’s past to recognize the pink Daytona as she entered into the clearing. Over the years, Strip had occasionally opened up about his past at the factory – what he’d been through, and what was expected of him. Lynda knew it was something he’d sooner forget, so she never prodded further than he was willing to share up front.

Strip slowly rolled away from the window. Lynda turned to look at him and saw an expression she hadn’t seen since that night he’d opened up and told her his secret. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything as he hesitantly made his way over to the front door.

Why would Izzy show up now? There hadn’t been an attack on Chrysler since the Chelsea Proving Grounds incident. The world had more or less assumed the manufacturers had come to their senses and stopped the war on their own. Strip’s own past felt more like a distant fever dream than a past reality.

He opened the door before Izzy could ring the doorbell. She met his stare startled, but apologetically. Neither of them said anything for several seconds. It had been fifteen years since they’d spoken. Not once had either of them bothered to go see the other or write a single letter.

Strip sighed. He thought he’d be mad, either about being bothered during his time off, or about the lack of communication for which he was partly at fault, but it wasn’t in his nature. Izzy looked exhausted, anxious, and otherwise roughed up. There were patches of paint scratched off her left side, and an assortment of minor dents and dings across the rest of her body that all looked relatively fresh.

“What’s wrong, Iz?” he asked quietly. “What happened?”

She looked off to the side, hesitating. “Have you not seen the news?” she asked in an equally quiet tone.

He shook himself. He hadn’t seen anything. The first thing he tended to do after a season was cut himself off from any media for a couple days to clear his mind.

A cool wind blew across the porch, and Izzy shivered. Coming to his senses, Strip backed out of the doorway.

“Come on in,” he gestured inside. “It’s warmer in here.”

She rolled through the doorway and came to a rest in the foyer, looking around. “Wow. You got yourself a nice place here.”

Lynda rolled up next to Strip, taking in the sight of his battered sister with concern written on her face.

“Can I get you somethin’ to drink?” Lynda asked out of courtesy. “You had a long flight, no doubt.”

Izzy seemed a bit surprised to see her, but nodded. “If it isn’t too much to ask.”

“Oh, right.” Strip suddenly realized they had never actually met each other. “Izzy, this is my wife, Lynda. Lyn, this is my sister, Izzy.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” Izzy smiled through her discomfort. “He used to talk about you all the time back in the day.”

“Oh?” Lynda said as if it surprised her. “Did he now? Well, I’m glad I finally get to meet the one that kept him in line before I got him.”

“One of these days we’ll get together and tell stories,” Izzy said as Lynda passed her a can of oil. “I have a feeling there’s a lot that’s been left out.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Anyway,” Strip cleared his throat. “Izzy, I know you’re not here to say congrats on the win. What’s going on?”

“Well,” she said after taking a long draw of oil, “that was gonna be mentioned somewhere. I did watch that race. You did good. We were cheerin’ for you.”

“We?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Izzy caught herself. “Sorry. Things have changed a lot since you left. The brigade dynamics are different now. We watch a lot of your major races together.”

“Hm.” Strip couldn’t picture it, but Izzy wouldn’t lie to him, not about something that trivial. “I always reckoned they’d be mad I left.”

“They were, for a while,” she admitted, “but I think their anger was a coping mechanism, more than anything.”

He knew what she was driving at. Diego had played the part of their ringleader, the car they looked to when they needed guidance. With him gone, whom would they follow? To whom would they listen? Without the constant dissent, in hindsight it seemed obvious that they’d eventually come around.

“But no matter.” Izzy corrected her tangent, and grew serious. She sounded significantly older, and more worn than the last time they’d talked. “Strip, I came to warn you. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”

“There hasn’t been an attack in almost fifteen years. What changed?” he asked.

“They came early this morning.” She kept shifting her gaze from him, to her hood, to the middle distance and back. “We weren’t ready in the least. Things aren’t like they used to be – the training every day, the constant exercise. We lost our edge and paid for it.”

She paused and thought back on the morning. Even though it had been recent, the exact chronology of the events were jumbled. Strip patiently waited for her to continue.

“The alarm went off before the sun came up, and we were in the air almost immediately. Within minutes. They were coming from the west this time, and at first glance, we thought they were drones – like the ones we fought the last time. Well, they weren’t.”

“Was it Ford?” Strip asked.

Izzy nodded. “Yeah, a whole slew of those new fox body Mustangs. We didn’t realize until we were close enough to see their badges. It was too dark, and they all had black paint. There were maybe a dozen of them, I don’t remember. They started firing, and we tried an airstrike, but we couldn’t get close enough to do so without putting ourselves in harm’s way.”

“Did we lose anyone?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Izzy shook herself, but frowned. “But Howie and Laura are in the ICU right now. Four or five of the others had to go in for basic repairs. I don’t think there was a one of us that didn’t get hit or have a hard landing afterwards. We only managed to take out three of the Mustangs.”

“Only three?”

“They’re not normal, which I’m sure is no surprise to you,” Izzy explained further. “They’ve got some sort of crazy armor that’s nearly impenetrable. I think the heat from the bombs is what killed the three.”

“That had to be what those drones were testing in those first couple of battles,” Strip pieced together.

“That’s what Rick said,” Izzy agreed. “But here’s another thing – the cleanup crews salvaged what was left of those Mustang bodies and examined them. They said there was some sort of second wiring harness that had melted together in the heat, like a second set of nerves. Looking back on it, they were all so synchronized, I’m not sure if they were acting on their own.”

“You mean, like remote control?”

“Exactly. I’m not so sure these guys were alive. And if they were, to what degree they could control their actions.”

Strip considered it. If what Izzy said was true, it could be one of two things. Ford could have taken soulless bodies and wired them to react to command. While sickening to think about, it wasn’t exactly the most unethical approach if they wanted to keep living subjects from coming to harm. If Ford could win with this technique, using makes and models true to their manufacture, controlled remotely, it would prove their superiority.

The second option was considerably darker. Ford could have chosen live subjects and rewired them to do their bidding. Strip thought he used to have it rough, being thrown into the war without a choice, but this would be far worse a fate. Imagine being trapped not only within a factory, but inside your own body as well.

“Izzy, why did you come to me? After all this time?”

She looked him straight in the eyes with a deadpan expression. “Because you’re in danger now, too.”


	10. Part 2, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rough departure and a long-overdue reunion.

Lynda’s eyes widened at Izzy’s words. She looked to her husband, who seemed void of any sort of emotion, staring at his sister. Izzy wasn’t joking.

“Wait, what? How?” Lynda inserted herself into the conversation. Content before to sit and listen, this now concerned her. She still had a life to live out with Strip, and she wasn’t about to have that jeopardized.

“I don’t understand.” Strip glanced at Lynda before looking back to Izzy. “I left. I’m not one of you anymore.”

Izzy sighed. “Ford knows how many of us there were. There were thirteen of us at that first battle. There’s only eleven of us now, but there’s only been one death. They know there’s one missing, and if something happens to the rest of us, they’re going to come looking. They’re not going to leave the job unfinished.”

“But they don’t know where to start,” Strip argued. “They don’t know our makes, models, or anything.”

Izzy was silent for a moment. “They do now.”

“What?”

“When they shot Laura out of the sky earlier, she morphed when she hit the ground. She tried to drive out of there, but she wasn’t quick enough. They saw her, and tried to lay her out with their weapons. They know we’re all the aero cars from ‘69 and ‘70.”

“But there are hundreds of us out there. They wouldn’t search the general public, would they?” he asked. “Wouldn’t the government try to intervene at that point?”

“Ford released a statement this morning. That’s the real reason I came,” she admitted. “They said that even though there was no clear winner in this morning’s battle, they’re confident they’ll win. They’ll cease fire when they have positive IDs on all twelve remaining aero cars, deceased. They won’t stop until they have that, government or not.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lynda said, her voice tense.

Strip tried to gather his frantic mind and keep a calm demeanor. This couldn’t be happening, not now, not when he had things to lose. He looked over at Lynda. She was visibly disturbed and upset at this revelation. Izzy seemed apologetic, being the bearer of bad news.

“Can we have a moment?” he asked Izzy. “Come here, Lyn.”

Izzy nodded and backed away. Lynda followed him as he drove into their bedroom and closed the door behind her. When Strip turned to look at her, she had tears in her eyes.

“You’re not going back, are you?” Her voice wavered as she spoke.

Strip had to look away from her in order to keep himself from showing how rattled he was. “I don’t want to, but –”

“But what?” she pressed. “Strip, those guys are out to kill. You’re not a fighter, and I need you here.”

“You know I am.” He countered her softly. “Even if I don’t wanna be. I don’t want to go back, but you heard Izzy. If somethin’ happens to the rest of the brigade and I’m not there, they’ll come looking.”

“But if somethin’ happens to the brigade and you _are_ there, they’ll get you too,” she protested.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “But either way, if I’m not there, every other Superbird, every other Daytona is going to be at risk. Am I supposed to put all these other innocent cars at risk just to try to save myself? You know I can’t do that.”

Forever the voice of reason, Lynda knew he had a point, but she refused to believe it. She kept her silence as she tried to think of a valid reason to make him stay. A couple tears rolled down her fenders.

“Hey, now.” Strip whispered as he moved closer, pressing his fender against hers. “It’ll be alright. We’re not going to let them win.”

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“I’m not leavin’ you,” he assured her. “Listen, Lyn, I know this is hard, but I promise you this one thing – I’ll come back to you. Just like I do after every race. If you can just give me a day or two to go check things out up there, I’ll come right back. I only need to know what we’re dealin’ with.”

“Promise?”

“Of course. I’ll go, check some facts, and come right back. I’ll even call you if that makes you happy.”

She nodded and sniffled a couple times as she reopened her eyes. “Okay. Be careful, will you? I love you.”

“I love _you_.” He kissed her before he left the room, leaving her to collect herself.

He reentered the common room and took a deep breath. Izzy apprehensively looked at him from across the room as he drove towards her.

“Is she okay?” she asked.

“She’ll be alright,” Strip answered. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Good, good,” Izzy seemed oddly relieved. “I hope she don’t hate me for barging in on you like this.”

“Nah, I think the two of you would get along pretty well, actually,” he shrugged. “You should stop by sometime when the world isn’t fallin’ apart.”

“If we make it through this, I will,” Izzy promised. “It’s been too long. I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner.”

“I’m surprised you came at all. How’d you get out?”

“I had a little help, just like you,” she said. “Stacey wanted to warn you just as much as I did.”

“She’s on my list of cars to talk to when we get there,” Strip informed her. “Right after Rick himself.”

“Wait, you’re coming back?” Izzy seemed surprised. “I thought you’d never come back.”

“Just for a day or so, to get information. If we’re all in this much trouble, I need to understand the situation,” he explained. “I don’t want to fight, but I’m not letting Ford wreck what I’ve built here.”

“Understood.”

They drove out into the country a ways to an open stretch of lonely road. Upon double-checking that no other cars were around, Izzy converted to flight mode. Strip watched with a tinge of sadness as she kept a steady, stone cold expression through the process. Perhaps at this point she couldn’t feel the pain anymore, for all he knew.

Fifteen years of neglect made Strip’s conversion even more sickening than it had been when he was younger. On several occasions, he’d considered trying to get the wings and jet engines removed, but a little voice in the depths of his mind always warned against it. Maybe this was why.

“For goodness’ sake, dude, when’s the last time you oiled that thing?” Izzy winced at the noise Strip’s spoiler made as it locked into its new position.

“I haven’t done this since the day I left,” he answered. “So, a while.”

“You got ammo?”

“No.”

“Well, then, let’s hope we don’t run into any trouble on the way.”

They did not, in fact, run into any trouble on their short flight back to Auburn Hills. Strip looked down at the Chrysler headquarters as they circled downward toward the runway in the old training grounds. Everything seemed different, almost distressed. To the west, one of the smaller decoy buildings had been replaced by a charred hole in the ground. The road leading out past where that building used to be was crumbled and broken, roped off by an absent repair crew. Even the grass that grew in the training grounds seemed less green.

“Where is everyone?” Strip asked as they landed and converted back. “I wasn’t exactly expectin’ a welcome committee, but it’s awfully quiet.”

“Inside, most likely,” his sister answered. “Either recovering or resting.”

Oh, right. While he’d spent the morning lazily with his wife, they’d been fighting for their lives. Right.

“Rick’s up in his office,” she continued. “If you want answers, I’d go straight to him.”

“You’re not comin’?”

“I’ll get there eventually. I need to check on the others first, make sure they’re okay.”

They parted ways as they entered the nearest building. Strip wandered the barren halls alone, feeling more isolated than ever. Those cold, white corridors seemed more frigid than he remembered, as if they were walls of ice closing in on him. He drove faster. They seemed colder and narrower. Faster. Colder.

Subconsciously, he knew he was panicking, but that panic lent him to taking the shortest direct route up to the executive suite. Within minutes, he was parked outside Rick’s office. There was a window to his left that offered a view outside, and the sun was beginning to set. It looked much warmer out there.

He came to his senses as the door before him opened, revealing a gentle, caring face that suddenly eased his conscious.

“Oh, Strip.” Stacey blossomed into giddiness upon seeing him and rushed over. “Look at you! Aw, you done grew up on me and became a racer. I knew you could do it.”

“Good to see you, too, Stacey,” he said as she looked him over.

“Dinoco – really? You landed a heck of a sponsor,” she complimented. “I saw the headline this morning about the championship win. Oh, I was so proud!”

“Thanks,” he appreciated the congratulations, but something still seemed off. Perhaps it was the conditions of his visit.

Stacey heard the hint of caution in his voice and backed away a little. Her expression relaxed into one of understanding.

“I’m sorry to ask you to come all this way when you have so much going on,” she said. “But with everything that’s happened – ”

“I came for answers,” Strip explained, driving toward the open door. “I’m not stayin’ long.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she nodded toward the awaiting office. “I’m just so happy to see you again. I didn’t think you’d come back.”

Strip stopped before entering the room and looked over at her. “You’re always free to come visit, you know. I could introduce you to my wife. I think you’d like her.”

“Oh, I’m sure I would,” she grinned. “I have all sorts of questions for you. Tell you what, after you’re done talking to Rick, come find me. I’ll be down there in the alcove waiting.”

She gestured down the long hallway that led to Rick’s office and the small windowed reading area at the end. One of the first memories Strip had as a newly manufactured car was sitting next to her in that alcove while she read him poetry from her favorite book, a collection of poems by Robert Frost. _The Road Not Taken_ had always been his favorite.

“I’ll do that,” Strip promised.

She winked at him and headed down the hall as he entered Rick’s office, letting the door shut behind him. He looked around. Not much had changed here. It was still an oversized, empty room decorated with portraits of the previous CEOs – those that had once taken it upon themselves to preserve the integrity of Chrysler’s manufacturing process.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Rick exclaimed from behind his desk at the far right of the room.

“Hey, Rick.” Strip gathered himself and approached the aging Power Wagon.

Rick looked like he hadn’t slept in days, which was not out of the ordinary, but rarely did he show it like this. His formerly spotless white paint had various scratches and chips in it that looked several years old. Rick had always had a thing about keeping his appearance neat, clean, and as perfect as he could. What happened?

“I never thought I’d see you in that getup.” Rick came around his desk to get a better look. “My star performer has a dinosaur painted on his hood.”

“The dinosaur pays the bills,” Strip countered, annoyed with Rick’s nonchalance. “Rick, I didn’t come all this way to chat. I have questions. I’ve been told you got answers.”

Rick turned to face the wall of monitors behind his desk – twenty-four screens, some displaying security feeds, others different news channels. The news channels flickered between reporters and footage of that day’s attack. In one of the brief segments, Strip saw Laura fall out of the sky. In another, building fifteen collapsed and ruptured into a giant ball of flame. In yet another, he saw himself, not participating in any sort of war, but posing with his second Piston Cup. He felt something comparable to guilt. Not guilt that he’d not been there to help fight the war, but a sort of sadness that stemmed from knowing that the other members of the brigade had no escape, and hadn’t lived the sort of life he’d been able to.

“We didn’t see them coming,” Rick muttered. “We’re lucky they all got out of there alive.”

Strip watched the building collapse for a second time from a different angle. These guys were packing weapons that rivaled their own.

Rick backed away from the display and drove around Strip to look out the single window in his office. This window took up half of the outward facing wall and opened up a view of the entire complex. As the ambient lighting slowly died, the nearby buildings flickered to life, reflecting the pale light the massive Pentastar marquee above them emitted. In the distance, they could see the lights of the skyscrapers in downtown Detroit. Strip joined Rick at the window.

“You know, I almost came after you when you left,” Rick said, as though Strip were there to reminisce old times. “I wasn’t about to just let you go.”

“Why didn’t you?” Strip asked. It was off-topic, but he’d always wondered.

“Eh, women have a way with words,” Rick shrugged. “Stacey told me what she did and why. I couldn’t be mad. I wanted to, I really did, but I couldn’t. You’re married, now, right? So you understand.”

Strip expected a better explanation, but didn’t push the issue. “Why didn’t you ever marry?” he asked instead. “You and Stacey have been together since before my time.”

Rick let out a breath in a laugh. “Oh, we’ve been married a long time. We just never told anyone. You know that unspoken rule about having relationships within your organization.”

Strip hadn’t known this, matter of fact. Had it really been so simple this whole time?

“Strip, we never told you why we picked you, did we?” Rick’s tone quieted significantly.

“Uh, yeah. Several times, actually,” Strip answered. “It was the combination of –”

“No, not that,” Rick cut him off. “That was all true, but it was much more than that.”


	11. Part 2, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History lessons on the brink of disaster.

Strip felt uneasy. He’d never seen Rick be so amiable, so personable. The CEO had always been terse and to the point, not kind, but never callous. The few one-on-one conversations they’d had in the past had all been strictly technical, and to Strip’s knowledge they’d never been close personally. But there had been something – that one thing that made Rick treat him just differently enough that the others had noticed.

“Stacey and I tied the knot the year before you were made,” Rick went on, staring at the lights in the distance as though they were something to long for. “We’d known each other for years. She wanted kids so bad, and I couldn’t say no. You’d think that I, overseer of this here operation that manufactures new life, would know a thing or two about kids. I didn’t have a clue, but she convinced me otherwise.

“We knew ahead of time that the Daytonas and the Superbirds would have a hard time finding homes. Not everyone wanted a racecar as a child, you know? ‘Let’s adopt one of those’ she’d said. She loved the excessive design we gave your kind. So one day we went and waited at the end of the line, watching the new cars roll off. She was all excited. Somehow, she knew that day was going to be the day.

“Then you came along. Something along the way had gone wrong, and your spoiler was a little too tall. No one else would have probably noticed, but we did. ‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘I want that one.’ And so we went and filed the paperwork. You came home with us that night.”

Strip sat, frozen in place, trying to comprehend what Rick was saying. They were his parents? How? He’d lived his life believing he’d had no family up to the point where he considered the brigade his siblings.

“You know, several months before, I got into that argument with Stephen and Paul, the CEOs at Ford and GM, respectively. I knew the war was coming, but I didn’t imagine it would be like this. I told you guys we designed you for the war, to fight, and that had all been decided years prior, but that was a lie. You were built to race. I wanted to prove we were better by dominating the track, not by fighting. But in another discussion I lost my temper, agreed to something I shouldn’t have, and here we are.

“Not long after the three of us made the big announcement that we were going to fight,  an engineer came to me with sketches of ways we could reconfigure your kind for fighting. It was the best we could come up with on the spot, and I went with it. We profiled the other twelve as fighters, and pulled them out of the adoption pool.

“One day we left you alone for a minute too long and found you jabbering to Izzy. You two were both so naïve at the time, you wanted to be best friends. We couldn’t afford to keep you around her if we wanted you to grow up unassociated. You threw a fit when we tried to split you up and understandably so. These were the only other cars you recognized, because they looked like you and behaved like you.

“One night Iz got really sick. So sick, we actually thought she wouldn’t make it. You stayed next to her for nearly two days and didn’t budge, claiming you were gonna ‘fight off’ whatever was making her ill. Stacey and I couldn’t bear to separate you after that. We didn’t want to make you fight, and endanger your life, but if you were going to fit in with the brigade, you had to be just like them. They weren’t the type to tolerate differences. We decided one night to let you undergo the procedure to be one of them, thinking nothing was going to break that bond you’d formed with your sister, and that could be more powerful than any weapon we could give you. You’d protect each other to the end. But to do that, we had to give you up as our own.”

Strip sat silently, overcome with a strange emotion he’d never felt. Rick’s whole story felt like a depressing soap opera that he didn’t want to be a part of, but nonetheless derived a strange sense of satisfaction from.

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You were much too young. Most cars don’t start remembering things until they’re a month old at best.”

It seemed so unreal, so impossible, but it _made sense_. That was why Rick pushed him harder, to be better than the rest of them. That was why he’d take the time to give him pointers in one-on-ones, and not the others. That was why Stacey would visit the brigade so frequently to check in on them, and why she would always try to talk to him when she passed him in the halls.

“I’m sorry, Strip. I really am,” Rick whispered. “I never wanted to make you miserable. I know how the others ended up treating you. In that sense I failed in giving you what I really wanted you to have. I’ll never be able to make that up. That’s why I didn’t come after you when you left.”

Strip looked down at his hood. All those months of training and social torture had led to something even greater. Had he not been part of the brigade, and then been allowed escape, he never would have met Tex, gotten the sponsorship, or become a racer. His friend Wayne would never have been promoted to be his agent. He never would have met Lynda.

“That’s… a lot to take in,” he admitted.

“I hope you understand why we couldn’t tell you sooner.” Rick looked over at him for the first time since starting into his story.

“I understand,” Strip responded. He really did, but one thing still bothered him. “But why are you telling me now?”

“I drafted a statement of neutrality this morning, after the attack.” Rick turned to look at him, genuine sadness in his eyes. “I said I’d accept defeat if they’d let you all live. I don’t need to prove we’re better. In some ways we are, in others we’re not. It’s the same across the board. Winning this war won’t determine a thing. I sent it to Stephen, and he responded with his own statement and went public with it. He’s not going to stop until he’s got twelve confirmed deaths.”

“Or until we get him first.”

Rick nodded woefully. “I didn’t want to have to drag you back into this, but you need to be aware. If something goes wrong here, they’re gonna go looking for you, and –”

A bright flash of orange lit up horizon, catching their attention. It quickly faded to dark again, but slowly started to glow as something caught fire.

“No,” an edge returned to Rick’s voice. “No!”

Strip shifted his glance away from Rick to the fire in the distance. The Power Wagon turned to his wall of monitors, desperately looking for something. He switched the volume on for the monitor displaying the local Detroit news and waited. Strip watched the fire grow in the distance. That wasn’t Chrysler property by a long shot. That fire was practically in Canada.

“Uh, Rick? What was that?” Strip asked. “That wasn’t us, was it?”

Rick shook himself and turned the volume up. “Look at this.”

“This just in,” the reporter listened intently into her headset, “it appears there’s been an explosion at the Renaissance Center in downtown Detroit. The… top ten floors of the northeast tower are now completely engulfed in flames.”

Rick switched the volume to a different monitor.

“… General Motors’ headquarters under attack? So soon after a heavy blow to Chrysler this morning…”

An engine roared down the hallways and screeched to a near halt as Izzy came bursting in the room.

“Are you guys seeing this?” she squeaked.

The news reports were flowing in, everyone unanimously holding Ford accountable for the atrocity. Videos showed cars screaming in the streets, trying to get as far away as possible from the burning building. City officials were evacuating everyone within a three-block radius

“This doesn’t make sense,” Rick muttered, thinking aloud.

“What do you mean?” Izzy asked, exasperated. “Ford just attacked GM, and GM doesn’t have anything or anyone built to protect itself.”

“Exactly,” Rick pointed out. “Look. Look how there doesn’t seem to be anyone attacking now. Ford would never strike once and leave. They’re out to finish a job. They don’t have a reason to go after GM right now. Their target is us. Also, Stephen knows better than to stage an attack downtown. That’s too risky, even for him.”

“You think it was an inside job?” Strip asked.

“Has to be,” Rick said, the gears turning in his mind. “There’s no other explanation. But why?”

They watched in silence as the city evacuated everyone near the Renaissance Center and the firefighters and emergency staff moved in. It was nothing short of chaos.

“Looks like we have word from Ford,” one of the new anchors chimed in. “Have they taken credit for this?”

“Let’s see,” their co-anchor said, reading a piece of paper someone off screen had passed them. “Uh. Wow.”

“Well, go on.”

“Uh, it says, quote – ‘We have a new weapon, the final weapon, that we will use against GM and Chrysler. Tonight, GM will experience a minor setback from within. Chrysler, you better keep a watch in your rearview.’ – unquote.”

“Excuse my language, but what the – ”

Strip shared a glance with Izzy. Rick looked deep in thought.

“So they took credit for it?” Izzy asked, confused as ever. “They’re not even there!”

“A weapon?” Rick wondered aloud. “What kind of a weapon…?”

“I don’t know, but – ”

The door blew open and off its hinges, and the bulletproof glass window across the room shattered as a massive influx of heat and air shadowed a deafening explosion from down the hall. All three cars were thrown against the wall of monitors that exploded under the pressure, showering them in pieces of broken glass. Seconds later, all was quiet except for the rumbling and groaning of the building’s skeleton giving way.

“Drive!” Rick yelled. “Now!”

They didn’t hesitate. The floor gave way a couple inches as they accelerated out the door, only to come to a screeching halt. The hallway simply ended no more than hundred yards away, wires sparking, hanging into the dark air. The lighting flickered until it went dark. There was no more elevator to that floor. There was no more alcove at the end of the hall.

“No.” Rick rolled a couple inches in that direction. “Please, no.”

Izzy looked confused. Why was Rick fixated on the end of the hall? The building they were in had just taken a major hit, and they needed to move. She looked to Strip and saw him shaking ever so slightly. Was there something she’d missed?

Strip stared at the severed hallway. Rick pushed past him and started screaming Stacey’s name into the void. The floor gave way another few inches, and several large chunks of concrete fell past the gaping hole. How could this happen? He had planned to talk to her after his conversation with Rick. He had so many questions, so many things to tell her, and that had been before he knew she was his mother. How could that just be taken away?

“Let’s move!” Izzy yelled, pushing Rick towards the emergency exit. “We don’t have time to sit around and gawk.”

Rick was swearing and fighting Izzy’s every move. Strip shared in his rage quietly, seeing red for the first time in a very long time.

“Strip!” Izzy shouted. “Help me out, here!”

“Rick,” Strip said in a voice so stern it got the truck’s attention, “if you want us to do something about this, we need your help, and we need it now.”

Rick stared at him with tears in his eyes, mouth agape in shock. Strip couldn’t help but break composure. He couldn’t imagine what that felt like. His own pain was bad enough.

“Let’s go.” Strip motioned toward the emergency exit.

Rick took one last look down the hall before turning around and gunning it for the exit. There was work to be done. Izzy looked to Strip.

“Was she…?” she asked.

Strip looked away and followed Rick, leaving Izzy no choice but to follow.


	12. Part 2, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight for your life.

“There,” Rick finished loading Strip’s right Gatling gun for him. “Ready.”

It’d taken all of two minutes to reach the armory in the basement of building twenty-nine, the building that afforded the easiest access to their runway on the training grounds. Rick immediately tasked himself with thoroughly equipping Strip with the latest and greatest ammunition available. For the first time in his life, the racer welcomed it.

As they finished, the rest of the brigade entered the room, still scarred from the morning’s fight. Strip glanced around at them. They all appeared so much older, more subdued. It seemed clear they no longer considered this a game.

Somehow, both Howie and Laura had been repaired quickly enough over the course of the day to offer their services again, but even so were nothing but a patchwork of bare metal, primer, and missing accessories. Everyone else was dinged, scratched, or burnt in at least one place. They’d been through hell and back, only to be thrown back into the fire.

They stared at Strip as if they couldn’t believe he was really with them once again. He didn’t meet any of their gazes. It wasn’t a time for reconciliations. If they wanted to talk, they could do so after they decimated their attackers.

“Listen up,” Rick announced to them, his voice still weak. “This ends tonight. I –”

The walls around them rumbled as building one finally fell in the near distance. A thin layer of plaster shook loose from the ceiling and showered around them. There wasn’t a soul in that room that didn’t understand the gravity of the situation in some way or another.

“I want Ford done with tonight,” he continued. “One way or another, this will end. You know their weakness. Incinerate them. Do whatever you have to. I’m not losing anyone else after tonight.”

The other members of the brigade looked confused, but nodded. Rick had never bothered to show any sort of genuine emotion in their presence before, and here he was, practically in tears, and accompanied by their long lost brother. What was going on?

“Go,” Rick commanded, pressing a button to open the garage door. “Win.”

Organized in two perfect lines of six, they morphed and hit the runway. The air felt as though it were choking them as they rose through a thick layer of smoke and heat. Not far to the south, the white Chrysler Pentastar marquee lay broken, flickering among the rubble that had once been building one.

“There’s eight of them,” Izzy summarized, turning to the south. “That’s how many escaped this morning. There’s ele- twelve of us. We have the advantage. Stay high. Let’s burn ‘em.”

Strip saw them coming from just beyond the remains of the fallen building, a wide circle of Mustangs around another car in the center. The fire rising from the wreckage cast long shadows behind the armored, black cars on the ground, making them look to be the embodiment of death itself.

“Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but I see nine,” a voice chimed in from behind them.

They were right. There were the eight Mustangs, but the car they surrounded was not one of them. As the brigade came into range, the car in the middle raised its weapon and fired at them. A fraction of a second later, each Mustang copied the center car’s move with practiced perfection. To the untrained eye, it seemed to unfold simultaneously. Strip noticed, however, having become a master of observation and split-second decision-making.

“Scatter!” Izzy yelled, pulling away and out of the line of fire.

Someone screamed as a bullet hit them. A couple others fired back. The cars on the ground launched another short-range missile into a nearby decoy building, leveling it instantly.

Strip, suddenly hyper aware of everything around him, felt time slow to a crawl. This was nothing more than a chaotic game of chess. Once, in between races, Tex had showed him how to play.

“It’ll sharpen your ability to see two or three moves ahead of your opponent. In your case, that’s the other racers.”

That what Tex had said, and though Strip had scoffed at it at the time, he ended up finding it quite useful. Racers were highly predictable on the track, especially those he’d raced with for several years. Why should this be any different?

“The Mustangs are being controlled by the car in the middle,” Strip observed.

“We take him out, they’re all done for,” Izzy finished.

“How are we going to get down there?” someone else pointed out. “Their cover fire is too thick.”

“They can’t focus on all of us at once,” Strip answered. “Spread out. Dive when you see an opening. Anticipate their next move.”

No one hesitated. Strip banked wide and faked flying away until the bullets stopped flying in his direction. Promptly, he started into a wide circle to come around behind the Fords. As he came in on approach, two bright red and orange explosions disrupted the Mustangs’ formation, engulfing the three in the front. In the flash of light, Strip got a good look at the car in the middle.

He blinked a couple times. That wasn’t a Mustang. That wasn’t even a Ford-built car.

“Three down!” Matt yelled as he and Jess pulled up and away from their airstrike.

Ahead, Strip saw two more members of the brigade coming over, preparing to strike. He started firing away at the remaining enemies, drawing their attention.

“Go now!” he ordered. “I’ll cover you.”

One bomb fell short of its target, blasting another crater in the midst of the already molten Mustang bodies. The other hit between the ringleader and the next nearest ‘stang. The center car was blown from his position several hundred yards away from the rest of his fighters. He seemed shaken, but otherwise unharmed while the Mustang that had been nearest him suffered a much worse fate.

“One more down.”

“Are you guys seeing this?” Strip asked once he’d pulled away to a safe distance again.

“Seeing what?”

“That car down there. Their leader. He’s not a Ford.”

“What?

“I’m serious. It’s a Grand National.”

“Wait – a Buick?”

“Dude, you’re right,” someone else said. “Has GM joined Ford?”

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” Strip thought aloud. “Not after the attack on the RenCen earlier.”

_The final weapon…_

_GM will experience a minor setback from within…_

“Looks like Ford convinced one of GM’s own to work on their behalf.” Rick’s voice came in over the radio. “That’s why those Mustangs weren’t at the RenCen. The Buick could just go in on his own and blow the place sky high without ever being suspect. They probably used that as a distraction to sneak up on us.”

“He’s the weapon.” Izzy’s voice grew grim. “Take him out.”

Order gave way to chaos as the brigade converged on the dazed Buick. It was hard to say what exactly happened first.

The Mustangs rushed to guard the Grand National as the fliers grew nearer, but before they got very far an explosion incinerated one and sent another flying into the unwelcoming darkness. The two remaining Fords stopped and started firing into the air with renewed accuracy. The Buick finally gained his bearings and resumed firing as well.

The next explosion came from behind Strip in the sky. Static briefly fuzzed over their radio as a glowing hunk of flaming metal fell to the ground. He couldn’t tell who it was. The Buick dodged an array of bullets and fired on them again as he began to drive away from the Chrysler grounds. The Mustangs didn’t follow.

Izzy chased the Buick down as he ran and with practiced precision let her last firebomb fall. It hit him square on the hood and blasted a crater half the size of a city block. The Mustangs fired again, and yet another agonizing cry in the air was cut short by sudden detonation. Strip saw Jess fall. They were aiming for the bombs they carried. She was gone before she ever hit the ground.

“Finish them!” Izzy screamed, watching her sister fall.

Strip wasn’t sure what hit him, a bullet or a piece of shrapnel. It could have been anything, really. Whatever it was, it caught his right thruster and ripped it from his body, taking the right half of his tail fin with it. He tried to steady himself, but the hydraulics that controlled his wings were also busted, spraying fluid everywhere. He fell into a death spiral.

Time slowed again as he watched the ground spin beneath him. For a brief moment, he wondered if this had been what it felt like when the Fabulous Hudson Hornet lost control on Fireball Beach that day back in 1954. This made all those pileups on the circuit feel like child’s play.

As he fell, he narrowly avoided colliding with Izzy as they crossed airspace. Her shriek made him vaguely conscious of reality again.

“No!”

But he didn’t hear her voice. It was Lynda’s. He realized he’d forgotten to call her when he arrived, and now it was past dark. The news stations were undoubtedly capturing footage of the battle from somewhere. She had to be losing her mind.

_I promised her I’d come back. I promised to call._

Another explosion to his right – no, left – no, right, again, caught his attention. Someone else had fallen, and exploded on impact. The bombs. If the bombs detonated on impact, he’d be a goner for sure. He disengaged the two he still carried and let them fall. It didn’t matter where they landed. The resulting shockwave threw him horizontally through the air and into the side of a nearby building. It broke his spiral and his wings. He fell ten stories straight down as busted concrete rained around him.

_You’re not in flames. This is good. Concentrate. On something._ _Anything._

Easier said than done. He struggled to open his eyes through the pain rocking his body. Another chunk of concrete from the busted wall he was laid up against came down and smashed into his hood. Another explosion echoed between the buildings.

Something in front of him moved. Caught in the rubble, Strip saw a pair of fear-filled eyes staring back at him. The black car was hyperventilating, struggling to move. The car’s front fender lay twenty yards away, with his only weapon still attached. The rest of him was pinned to the ground by a tangled mess of rebar and building materials. He was helpless.

He was a _child_. Couldn’t have been more than half a year old, no older than Strip had been when he’d started seriously training to fight. A windowpane fell from above them and shattered as it landed on the heap of debris holding the Mustang hostage. The impact knocked another piece of debris away, allowing Strip to get a better look at his enemy.

Suddenly, he wasn’t at the factory grounds anymore. He was sitting in Victory Lane, being presented with his second Piston Cup again. It all played out exactly as it had the day previous. The confetti had finally settled when someone snuck up behind him and dumped a tank of Nitroade over him in celebration. The press was pressuring him to say something and to pose with the trophy, when someone yelled his name.

Of all the cars he knew that could push their way to the podium to see him through the crowd, it wasn’t Lynda or Tex that had been the first to arrive. It was Jake Belleview – the son of one of Strip’s closest racing friends, Tori Belleview – the Grand Torino he’d beaten by mere inches to take the championship. The two were so close that Jake viewed Strip as an uncle.

“You won!” the newly manufactured fox body Mustang screamed as he skidded to a stop next to the Dinoco racer. “You did it!”

Strip couldn’t help but laugh. The black Mustang was jittering with excitement, taking in the sight of the golden trophy sitting next to him. Strip had to wave away the security guards as they came to collect the intruder.

“He’s fine,” Strip told them. “Let him have his fun.”

“Jake!” a familiar voice shouted through the crowd, as the black and tan Ford pushed his way toward the stage, followed by both Lynda and Tex.

“Tori, you need to start keepin’ tabs on your kid.” Strip called to him as he finally broke through the last wall of reporters. “He’s gonna run off one day, and you’ll never find him.”

“Oh, I’ll know exactly where to find him,” Tori laughed. “I just look for you and he’s not too far behind.”

“He beat you!” Jake taunted his father. “He _beat_ you!”

“Yeah, that’s right, kiddo.” Strip wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to jokingly rub his win in. “Now, tell me, who’s the better racer here?”

“Strip! Team Dinoco always wins over Team Hurst. Always.”

“Uh-huh. Alright.” Tori cast Strip an accusatory glance. “We’ll see about that. Weathers, you’re taintin’ my own child.”

“Just tellin’ him how it is.” Strip smiled.

“Next year. I’ll get you next year,” Tori swore. “Come on, Jake. Let’s go find your mom.”

Strip watched the Mustang hop down from the stage to join his father, bouncing around with excitement.

“Oh, Strip.” Tori caught himself and turned around before he disappeared. “Congrats on the win. Heck of a race today.”

The sound of gunfire brought Strip out of the past and into the present. The kid was still staring at him and fighting to get out from under a twisted knot of rebar. There was a puddle of oil accumulating on the ground beneath him. It appeared the kid’s damage was worse than it seemed on the surface.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Strip said in a gravelly voice. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The Mustang froze, panting, giving the wrecked Superbird an untrusting glare.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Strip repeated. “I promise. What’s your name?”

The black car looked around as if he expected an attack from another direction. Strip gave him a couple of moments to relax. He couldn’t blame him for being scared. They were all scared.

“Jason,” the kid finally answered in a weak, quiet voice.

Hearing his voice rent a hole in Strip’s soul. Jason was even younger than he’d imagined. Had Ford just pulled these cars off the line the month before to prepare them to fight?

“Okay, Jason.” He tried to keep the child’s attention away from the fighting. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get out of here, you hear?”

“I can’t move,” he whimpered.

“I know. Don’t fight it,” Strip told him. “We’ll get you out after they’re done fightin’. I can’t move, either.”

Jason looked at the mutilated car-plane hybrid in front of him and steadied his breathing. “What’s your name?”

Strip hesitated, but answered truthfully. This wasn’t an occasion to worry about identities.

“My name’s Strip.”

“Like the racer?” the kid perked up.

“Yeah, yeah, just like him.” Strip smiled, watching the fear momentarily fade from Jason’s eyes.

“He won the Dinoco 400 yesterday. It was so close,” Jason said. “I was rootin’ for the 72, but he’s cool, too.”

“Well, the 72 has a good shot next season.” Strip thought it funny that this car, who looked so much like Jake, seemed more supportive of Tori than his own son had been.

“Yeah, I –”

They both flinched as shrapnel blew over them. Strip looked over after the fireball died out. There was another molten husk of Mustang burning nearby. The brigade had no idea what they were targeting. He looked to the sky, wanting to call off the attack, but he couldn’t see anyone. Where were they?

“Can I ask you a question?” Strip asked.

Jason forced a single nod before slipping into a more compromising position among the rubble. Strip could see the entry wound from a bullet where his fender used to be. How tough did they make these kids to be able to survive that sort of damage?

“Is someone makin’ you do this?”

“We do what we’re told,” Jason said, shuddering. “Stephen wired us to react to the master’s commands.”

“Who’s the master? Is that the Buick?”

“Yeah, he –”

Above them, the outer wall of the building creaked and groaned as it began to collapse. The far end went first, right over Jason. The kid looked up as a section of wall detached and fell towards him. Instinctively, Strip fired a round of bullets at it to try and break it up.

It was too little, too late.

“Kid,” he croaked as the dust settled. “Jake- Jason!”

All was quiet save the crumbling infrastructure around them. Strip never saw the column fall toward him. The innocence in the Mustang’s face was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.


	13. Part 2, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath.

The first thing Strip registered as he regained consciousness was the quiet hiss of an air compressor off to his left. It had a soothing rhythm to it. _Hiss. Stop. Hiss. Stop. Hiss._ As he came to, he made out the sound of a paint gun operating in synchronicity. The hum of a repair machine served as a relaxing backdrop.

He cracked his eyes open and looked around. Unsurprised, he found himself in a repair bay. Across the room, Izzy sat motionless in another booth, eyes closed, getting a new coat of paint. He watched the machine move back and forth across her spoiler, giving her a final coat of black paint to finish off her stripe. Seeing her made him feel content.

He then looked at himself. From what he could see and feel, he was in one piece, with a plain, but color correct coat of Dinoco blue paint. He rolled out of the booth and went through the motions. Engine running? Check. Transmission shifting? Check. He could even feel his wings and secondary engines had been replaced. Drowsily, he cruised over to a nearby mirror.

“Sorry we couldn’t replicate your sponsor’s design,” Rick called to him from behind. “The machines only do factory-specified paint schemes.”

Strip turned to see his CEO approaching him. At the sight of the Power Wagon, the memories came rushing back. His engine sputtered to a rough stop as it all came flashing to the front of his mind, as though he were experiencing it all over again. His talk with Rick, the severed hall, the fall of building one, Jess falling through the air, that young Mustang…

Rick saw him dissociate and came to a halt several feet away, wary. He didn’t know what Strip had seen or experienced before they’d managed to dig him out of the wreckage. They’d found him near the body of one of Ford’s Mustangs, who had long been gone at that point. It was a miracle he was still alive.

“What happened?” Strip asked when he found himself again.

Rick took a deep breath as he pondered where to begin. “Well, we found you under a building, for starters.”

Strip knew that. He looked toward Izzy. “Is she alright?”

“Hm?” Rick followed his gesture toward the Daytona. “Oh, yeah, she’s fine. She flew out of there on her own. Impressive really. She just didn’t want to get worked on until she knew you were gonna make it.”

“Was it that bad?” he hesitated to ask.

“It… was something.” Rick looked away. “You spent nearly half a day down there before we got to you.”

“Half a – ” Strip’s mind snapped into action. Half a day, plus all the time needed to repair him… “How long’s it been?”

“About six days. We got you in here as soon as – hey, where are you going?”

Strip made like a bandit toward the exit as Rick kicked himself into gear to try and catch him.

“Strip! Wait, don’t go in there.”

“I need to find a phone, Rick,” Strip called behind him as he pushed through the door. “ _Now._ I was supposed to – ”

He screeched to a halt as he saw the scene in the neighboring room. One, two… five… eleven? Eleven. Ten sheet-covered mounds were about his size, with varying degrees of structure left to them. Some looked to have wings, others didn’t appear to have anything more than a frame. The eleventh was shaped differently, more like an older car - a Monaco to be precise.

Strip slowly backed away until his bumper contacted the wall near the door.

“No,” he whispered.

Rick looked across the covered bodies, hesitating on the last one. He blinked away his emotions as best he could and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Rick muttered. “There wasn’t anything else we could do.”

“All of them?” Strip could feel his throat closing up.

All that effort, all those months – years for these guys – of training, and they all fell in a single night? Their lives had ended before they ever got a chance to experience them, and yet he was the one that survived.

Rick didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said it all. He’d not only lost his wife, but the majority of the only other cars he dared care about – young cars he’d taken from the assembly line himself to fight for him. In a way, he felt he was responsible for taking their lives. Guilt didn’t begin to cover it.

“Come on,” Rick motioned back toward the repair bays. “Let’s go out the other way. I’ll find you a phone.”

Strip tore his gaze away from the covered corpses and followed, shaken. This wasn’t right. They’d done well, hadn’t they?

“I thought we were winning?” Strip asked as Rick took him to a nearby conference room.

“We were, but we’re not bulletproof. We managed to take out all eight of those Mustangs,” Rick said in a numb tone, “but not before they did their fair share of damage.”

“They were just kids, you know,” Strip whispered.

“I know.” Rick frowned. “I’d say Stephen’s gone mad putting them at the forefront of something like this, but I suppose I wasn’t so different with you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Strip sighed, remembering his conversation with the dying Mustang. “There’s nothin’ we can do now.”

“I guess not. I do intend on giving them as proper of a burial as I will the brigade, though. They deserve better than being left to rust in the elements.”

Strip nodded in agreement, lost in thought and trying to fight the overwhelming grief. “What about the Buick?”

“Got away.” Rick shook himself in unbelief. “I don’t know what that dude’s made out of, but Izzy’s airstrike only wounded him. He’s all that’s left of Ford, ironically enough.”

All this loss, and there was still some piece of a war left to fight, against an indestructible foe no less.

“Here.” Rick motioned to the phone in the center of the conference table. “Press 9 before dialing an external number.”

“Thanks.”

Rick closed the door on his way out, leaving Strip in peace, and going back to check on Izzy’s progress.

Strip reached for the dial pad, typing in his home phone number so quickly he screwed it up on the first try. He prayed Lynda was okay. After everything that had happened and everything he’d seen, there was nothing more he wanted than to hear her voice again.

After half a ring, she picked up. “Hello?”

Her voice sounded stressed, but even so, Strip smiled.

“Hey, Lyn,” he said softly.

“Strip!” she inadvertently shouted, frantic. “Oh my… Strip, what…? I…”

“Shh. Listen. Take a deep breath. It’s all right. I’m right here.” He could hear her breathing raggedly like she always did after a good cry. It pained him to hear her like this, to know it was his fault. He continued talking as she lapsed into quiet sobs.

“Lynda, I am so sorry I couldn’t call you sooner.” He kept his tone even and calm, despite the dozen conflicting emotions trying to grapple their way to the surface. “You deserve better than this, I just – I promise I’ll come home and try to make it up to you.”

“What happened?” she asked in between shaky breaths. “Are you okay? The footage was horrifyin’.”

Strip sighed. “It’s a long story. And I’m… still kickin’ I guess. It’s bad up here, Lyn. Real bad. I need to see you. I miss you.”

“I miss you so much,” she sniffled and started to ramble. “You didn’t call for nearly a week and I thought that maybe – ”

“Hey,” he cut her off before she could go any farther. “Remember what I promised you when I left? I’m not gonna break my promise to my girl, now am I?”

“I was so worried,” she whispered.

“I’ll be home in a couple hours, okay? I promise. I’ll explain it all then.”

“Alright. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He ended the call and breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined himself at home, alone with her. It was so peaceful. Those moments by the fireplace really were the most valuable.

He exited the conference room and headed back to the repair bays. He had to talk to Izzy before he left again; he couldn’t just leave her all alone in a place like this, not after all they’d been through.

She sat motionless in the booth as he entered, void of any predominant emotion, staring at something invisible in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice his arrival.

“Hey,” he greeted her quietly.

Izzy’s gaze drifted over to meet his before falling to the floor. She felt empty. There were no more tears left for her to cry, just dry pain to be felt.

“I’m so sorry I dragged you back into all this,” she whispered.

“It’s not your fault.” He shrugged, trying to be strong for her. “You did what you had to.”

She rolled forward out of the booth and started to head toward the main exit, but stopped. She knew what awaited her there, under those sheets. Fifteen years of laughing, fighting, movie nights, arguments, and more, all reduced to burnt, crumpled metal.

“Izzy,” Strip watched her cautiously, unsure of her mental composure. “Come here, I wanna talk to you.”

He turned to drive out the way he’d come in, and after a few seconds’ delay, she followed him. He led her to the front of the building they were in, over to an empty lobby where the outer wall was nothing but several large panels of glass. It offered an excellent view of the training grounds in the waning light. He parked in front of it and waited for her to join him.

She parked as close as she could to him without risking the integrity of her fresh, wet paint. The fact he was alive was a miracle, and she found herself focusing on that. She’d waited days to repair herself because she _had_ to know he was going to live. When that crane pulled him from the debris, she thought it was over, that he’d passed on just like all the others. Never was she so happy to be wrong, and somehow, amidst her suffering, that offered hope.

“I watched you fall.” She spoke first in a rough tone, frowning. “I watched the building collapse.”

Strip looked over at her, surprised she wanted to talk about it. He didn’t even want to _think_ about it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt different. Unsurprising, of course, as no one can watch that much death firsthand and be unaffected.

“I remember back when we were both young.” She continued after a brief pause. “Really young - you’d just rolled off the line. You barely knew how to drive, but you did know you wanted to be friends with me. It’s all a little fuzzy, but I remember. The first clear memories I have were those days you stayed with me when I was sick.”

“Rick told me all about that before the attack, oddly enough,” Strip mentioned. “I don’t remember hardly anything before we started trainin’.”

“You were only a couple weeks old at best. I had several months on you,” she explained. “I remember Stacey bringing you in to see me every couple days. We’d play and do stupid kid stuff until you had to leave. But one day she left you there. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she gave you up. My god, Strip, she loved you so much. That day I swore to myself I’d never let anything happen to you.”

Strip felt himself slip back into numbness. He never got a chance to properly tell Stacey thank you for everything she did for him – everything from the occasional treat growing up to letting him free all those years ago. He couldn’t imagine the life she had to have lived knowing what she knew. He almost wished he didn’t know. Almost.

“I thought I failed,” Izzy whispered.

They were both silent for several minutes. The outside lights flickered on and illuminated several charred patches of grass across the field. Strip looked up at the sky, hoping to see the stars, but instead he saw only the blurry outline of the moon through a layer of smog and thin clouds.

“You can come with me,” he offered. “You don’t have to stay here.”         

She considered it silently for a few moments. “What would I do? This is all I know. All I can do is fight.”

“You know that ain’t true,” he countered. “You’re a leader, Iz. It’s what you’re best at. Didn’t you always wanna become a doctor or somethin’?”

He thought he saw her smile briefly.

“A pipe-dream, that’s all that was,” she shook herself.

He cast her a sideways glance and changed his tone. “You remember all those old racin’ videos you used to make fun of me for watchin’?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Mr. Piston Cup champion. I see where you’re going with this. But the war isn’t over yet. I still have a primary directive.”

“The war as we know it _is_ over,” Strip argued. “You think that Buick is gonna come fight us by himself? As indestructible as he seems, I doubt it. Things are gonna be more subtle from here on out. You could afford to do both.”

“You think?” she asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice.

“Yeah. What else are you gonna do?”

She considered it some more before growing quiet again. “I have to stay and keep a watch on Rick. He’s lost everyone. I can’t just leave him. He hasn’t acted right since.”

“Well, truthfully, I don’t think any of us will ever be quite right after that,” Strip confessed.

Izzy sighed in agreement. “Yeah. I’ll stay for him, but I might do a little studying here and there, see what comes from it. But you – you need to go home. Be with your wife. I feel she needs you more than anything right now.”

Strip nodded, eager to go home, but hesitant to leave his only sister behind all alone. “You gonna be alright?”

She looked at him honestly. “I’ll survive. It’s what I do. Don’t worry about me.”

“Alright.” He backed away from the window. “You better come visit more often, you hear? And don’t wait until you need to. Me and Lyn have a lot of things we’d like to show you.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be around. Now go on.”


	14. Part 2, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strip's return to racing, knowing what he now knows.

It took weeks for things to return to normal.

Upon arriving home from the factory, Strip found Lynda in such an emotional mess it brought him to the brink of a meltdown. It took a couple of days for him to work up the nerve to tell her what had happened, both everything that he’d learned and the tragedy he witnessed. Sometimes he’d get through a whole piece of the story without getting worked up, other times he’d have to stop halfway through and collect himself. Some things he couldn’t bring himself to talk about at all. Lynda could do no more to help him than stay by his side, and comfort him when the nightmares became too intense. It was all he could ask for.

As the off-season progressed, the flashbacks and nightmares slacked off. Shock turned to brittle acceptance, and Strip had to force himself to move on. What was in the past was past. There was only the present and the future to consider.

Up north, the attacks stopped. Chrysler turned its focus toward rebuilding and repairing damages, while Ford’s only remaining contender seemed to disappear. The citizens of Detroit rioted outside the Renaissance Center on and off for nearly a month after the fire was extinguished, protesting the violence and sparking protests across the country.

Aside from the public uproar, things grew quiet, or rather, remained quiet in the small town the Weathers’ called home. As the new racing season grew near, Tex rallied Strip and Wayne to meet at their usual hangout to talk business.

Strip pushed through the Slim Trim’s front door and drove past the bar to their usual back table, ignoring the countless stares he received as he passed. He wasn’t a rare sight around town, and he truly appreciated not being treated like a celebrity there. Cars would look at him, and maybe in passing say hello, but he was rarely approached. Occasionally a little kid or a newcomer would come to him for an autograph, and he’d oblige, but for the most part he was treated like any other car. It allowed him to truly relax.

“Fashionably late, as always.” Wayne commented from behind three empty glasses of brew.

“No, I’m on time.” Strip argued, parking in what he’d designated to be ‘his spot’ at the table. “You guys just always get here early.”

It wasn’t that he thought he was important enough to have his own place at the table, it was just that one time he’d been parked with his tail toward the aisle and Aimee accidentally caught her serving tray on his spoiler, spilling everything she’d been carrying all over him. From that point on, he preferred to park with his fin toward the wall.

“Glad to see that new coat of paint turned out like it should,” Tex complimented him. “I was wonderin’ when you were gonna get it done.”

Strip looked down at the freshly painted Dinoco logo on his hood. He couldn’t deny it felt good to be back in his livery again.

“Yeah, shoulda done it sooner, Tex,” he admitted. “Feels good to be back.”

Tex nodded and looked over at Wayne. “Weren’t you supposed to make a new commercial or somethin’ this winter? I thought I put you in charge of publicity.”

“You put me in charge of _him_.” Wayne pointed to Strip with his tire.

“Who’s our publicity model,” Tex finished.

“If you want a commercial, just splice a couple racin’ videos together,” Strip said. “I’ll say a few words. I don’t mind.”

“No, no. I got it.” Wayne shoved his drink back on the table to keep from knocking it over. “I got an idea. Listen to this. ‘What’s better than one Piston Cup?’ Cut to you winning the Dinoco 400. ‘ _Two_ Piston Cups.’ Cut in some old commercial footage. ‘Use Dinoco products and you too can become king of the track!’ End with more racing footage. Endorsement. The end.”

Strip blinked. “That just might be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Stupid sells,” Wayne proclaimed.

“Not in my company, it don’t,” Tex muttered.

“Besides,” Strip continued, “there’s been lots of other racers that’ve won more than two championships. It’s nothin’ to brag about, let alone be throwing titles around.”

“I thought you’d like the ‘king of the track’ bit.” Wayne mused, thinking deeply.

“I’m not the oldest or the best,” Strip pointed out. “It don’t fit. Also, I have dignity that I’d like to keep. Tori’d ride me on somethin’ like that all season.”

“I think I could argue against a point or two there, boy,” Tex chimed in. “But no matter, I reckon. We’ll throw somethin’ together. It ain’t a big deal.  But my question to you – are you ready to race?”

“Yeah.” Strip answered flatly. “I’m always ready, what kind of a question is that?”

He looked back and forth between his friends. Wayne avoided eye contact and started absentmindedly tracing the water rings on the table. Tex looked at his racer with deep empathy. They both knew about what had happened that week he disappeared to the factory. They’d been the ones who tried to comfort Lynda while he was gone. Maybe they didn’t know every little detail about that week, but they knew enough to realize the losses had cut deep, and that his own life had been jeopardized.

“You’ve raced fifteen seasons for me without a break.” Tex phrased his words carefully. “If you still need some time off, we can arrange that. I don’t want you bitin’ off more than you can chew.”

“What?” Strip was confused. “Why would I need more time off?”

Wayne sighed and grew serious. “As both your agent and your friend, Strip, I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. If you need more time to cope with what happened, then – ”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Strip cut in, slightly agitated. “Just ‘cause I don’t wanna talk about somethin’ doesn’t mean I’ve havin’ a crisis. I’m fine. Really. If anythin’ at all, I need things to get back to normal. And normal for me is racin’.”

Tex nodded in understanding. “Alright. If you say so. But I want you to know that if the time ever comes you need to take a month or two off, I’m more than willing to oblige. You’ve earned it.”

“Noted,” Strip stated. “Now, you wanted to talk business, right? Expectations for this season?”

“Yup.” Wayne said as he finished his fourth drink. “As defending champion, you’re gonna have to keep winning. That’s it. That’s the plan. You win, we profit.”

Tex chuckled quietly at Wayne’s inebriation. “Eh, well, more or less. Just keep doin’ what you’ve been doin’, Strip. We’ll back you the whole way.”

Two weekends later, the circuit was vibrant with excitement. Florida was nice that time of year, a balmy seventy degrees without a cloud in the sky. Antsy race fans packed the stadium to near capacity, ready to get the season started.

The racers milled around the track that last half hour before the race, completing final checks, doing interviews, and catching up with each other. Strip sat in front of the Dinoco tent, trying to satisfy a whole slew of reporters who were all interested in the defending champion’s ambitions for the upcoming season.

“Team Dinoco’s not slowin’ down,” he answered vaguely, as he had no real strategy. “We’re gonna keep winnin’. It’s what we do.”

“There’re nearly half a dozen new rookies this year,” one reporter, a white Chevy pickup, stated. “Does the new competition pose any threat to old racing techniques?”

“What, those guys?” A voice broke into the conversation from behind Strip as Tori rolled up beside his friend. “Look at ‘em. They have the aerodynamics of their _trailers_.”

Tori gestured to one of the rookies as they passed in the distance. He had a point. The new LeakLess racer looked like he’d been modelled off a landscaping block.

“And that ain’t even the worst one I seen.” Tori said in a hushed tone to Strip. “There’s one guy over there that looks like he’s got a locomotive pilot for a grille.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t know what they’re capable of yet.” Strip said as the cameras turned toward him again. “They might be fast, they might not be. Time’ll tell.”

The speakers around them crackled to life, calling the racers to the track before the reporters could ask another question. As the cars with cameras and microphones retreated to their designated areas, Strip and Tori turned toward the pits.

“You tryin’ to steal my thunder before races now, Tor?” Strip initiated their usual pre-race banter.

“Yeah, well, I saw an opportunity and took it.” Tori replied, a hint of humor in his voice.

“Good, ‘cause that’s the only one you’re gonna get today,” Strip reciprocated the sentiment. “You know, you should try it more often. You might win every now and then.”

“Oh! Oh, okay. I see how it is.” Tori fired back. “Remember now, I have just as many championships on my résumé as you.”

A familiar voice shouted at them from beside the neighboring Hurst Shifters tent as they came into view. “Go, go, Dinoco!”

Jake came revving over to them with a huge smile on his face. “Ready to beat my old man today, Strip?”

“Hey.” Tori seemed offended.

“That’s what I get paid to do, ain’t it?” Strip smiled at him.

Jake grinned and gave his father an impertinent look. “You’re goin’ down, dad.”

Before Tori had time to respond, Jake sped off behind the Hurst tent to join his mother and Tori’s sponsor up in the suites. Strip watched him go. He tensed as an uncomfortable emotion reared itself in the back of his mind.

“Where did I go wrong with him?” Tori asked as if he were questioning the universe itself.

To Strip’s left, he caught a flash of blue as Lynda approached him. He stopped and turned to face her as Tori continued on.

“Hey, good luck out there today,” she smiled softly.

“Thanks, hun,” he returned.

Lynda noticed something in his voice seemed off. She looked past him toward the Hurst tent and saw Jake following Tori’s wife out of the infield.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Strip shook himself in an attempt to clear his mind again.

She could see straight through him. Not only was he a terrible liar, she knew him well enough to have developed a sixth sense of sorts when it came to the inner workings of his mind. The events of the past off-season had only made this more apparent.

“Listen, Strip,” she said quietly, with an empathetic tone. “You just need to focus on the race. It’ll make you feel better and help clear things up.”

“I know,” he responded even quieter. “I just wasn’t prepared for that.”

Lynda gave him a soft kiss on the fender. “Give that kid the win he wants, but be careful now, you hear?”

“Yeah, ma’am.”

Strip rejoined Tori on the other side of the Hurst tent, who was still caught up on their run-in with his son.

“You wanna know somethin’ real embarrassing?” Tori asked, but then left no room for Strip to answer. “Jake collects those little diecast models they make of us, and he’s got one of almost everyone. But you? No, he’s got _two_ of you.”

“Seems like he’s matured a bit since last season,” Strip replied, unfazed. He’d heard weirder things.

Tori shook himself in disbelief as they rounded the garages. “They grow up way too fast, man. If you and Lynda ever decide you wanna have one, I’m warnin’ you now, it don’t seem like they stay young long. Maybe a year?”

The two came to a halt as a yellow and black Chevelle backed out of a garage bay. It was Sammy Fireline, the racer for team Caterpillar, a close friend and an even fiercer competitor.

“You ready to lose, boys?” Sammy joined in with them, overconfident as usual.

“Are you ready to be penalized?” Tori bit back. “My only goal this year is to not let you push me around.”

“Aw, see you shouldn’t’ve told me that.” Sammy smirked. “Now I’m gonna try and do it on purpose.”

Sammy’s claim to fame wasn’t a championship title, but his ruthless racing style. Despite his amiable and caring personality, he didn’t budge for anyone out on the track. Nearly everyone who’d raced with him for a significant amount of time had been subtly pushed into a wall or another nearby racer. The Chevy claimed that his sponsor appreciated him paving his own path.

“You know, you wouldn’t need to shove us around if you could stay at the front of the field.” Strip mocked him as they entered pit row.

“Oh, I’m comin’ for you, Weathers,” Sammy told him, stopping off at his pit box halfway down the row. “This is my year!”

“We’ll see about that,” Strip called behind him as he headed down to the Dinoco box at the front of the pack.

He passed several of the rookies before he reached his team, and couldn’t deny his surprise at how they’d placed during qualifying. Four of them were in the top half of the field, and one was even in the top ten, that new LeakLess racer Tori pointed out earlier. Strip thought that maybe he _should_ keep a watch on them.

“You ready to roll?” Strip’s crew chief asked him as he waited for the pace car.

“You bet,” he answered, taking a breath and relaxing.

“You got the pole position this time around. All you gotta do is keep it,” the blue truck said.

“I intend to.”

As the racers followed the pace car to the track, Strip took a moment to look up at the sponsor and VIP suites around the top of the track. Up there, Lynda and Tex were cheering him on. In another, Jake was undoubtedly the odd one out among Team Hurst. Somewhere hundreds of miles away, Izzy might even be watching.

Strangely enough, as the pace car led them around turns three and four, Strip found himself unafraid of his own thoughts. For the first time in months, he brought his last memories of the brigade and Jason to the forefront. If they were still around, they’d be watching from somewhere too.

The green flag dropped as the pace car left the track. Strip floored it.

_For them._


	15. Part 2, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chick Hicks enters the racing scene with a bang.

“Alright, boy. Four in a row. Let’s make it five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Team Dinoco was on a roll. Ten races into the season and Strip had won six, the last four consecutively.  Two weeks prior, he’d smashed the standing record for fastest lap by three miles per hour. The Piston Cup rumor mill sparked talk that Weathers was a true legend in the making. No one had won four races in a row since 1952, let alone done that _and_ set new records at the same time.

Strip’s crew chief stayed silent as the race began. He knew that his racer knew what to do, even in an unfavorable starting position. The day before, an incident (i.e. unexpected debris on the track) had interfered with Strip’s qualifying lap and set him back to mid-field. Even though he and crew protested and demanded a rerun, the officials wouldn’t let their racer have it. Apparently, windblown newspapers don’t warrant second chances.

“Well, look at you, back here with the rest of us,” Sammy chided as he pushed his way next to Strip. “Was a bit of newspaper too much of a match for our king of the track?”

Strip gritted his teeth. He still had a score to settle with Wayne. Somehow, that conniving Fury had rearranged his drunken spiel just enough to get Tex’s approval, and the resulting commercial caught on among the public like wildfire. Strip _hated_ it.

“Can’t race if you can’t see where you’re goin’,” Strip muttered as they started into the fiftieth lap.

Sammy laughed. “Hey, man. It happens. You get that sometimes.”

“No, you really don’t.”

They dove into turn three side by side, Strip taking the lower groove. A row of racers were three-wide ahead of him on a track that didn’t generally didn’t lend itself well to anything greater than two. Until they broke apart, there was no way he’d be able to pass.

“Hey,” Sammy changed the subject. “You see that rookie up there?”

“Which one? There’s half a dozen of ‘em.”

“The one that looks like a refrigerator with too many magnets on it.”

He wasn’t hard for Strip to spot. Not only was the rookie an ironic shade of unlucky green and covered from roof to rocker panel in every sponsor sticker imaginable, but he was also a Grand National, one of two now on the track. The stickered-up kid was a decent racer. He’d been placing consistently thus far, and that was more than many rookies could claim.

Despite consciously recognizing that his experience with Ford’s remaining combatant had no hold on the rest of the Grand Nationals, Strip still found himself unnecessarily uneasy when he passed them, and reprimanded himself every time for feeling that way. It was ridiculous. Just looking at the rookie made him feel anxious.

“Yeah, I see him.”

“Watch him next time we come out of turn four,” Sammy said. “It keeps throwin’ him off.”

The Chevelle was right. There was a slight inconsistency on this track between turns three and four that threw several of the unseasoned racers off their line. Turn four was just a smidge sharper than three, and the Buick fell away from the middle groove toward the wall. A car to the outside had to fall back to avoid collision.

“Amateur,” Sammy commented. “If you’re gonna push someone out of the way, do it on purpose! He’s just makin’ a fool of himself.”

“I distinctly remember you doin’ the same thing the first time we raced this track.” Strip pointed out.

Before Sammy could think of a good comeback, the inside lane opened ahead of Strip. Taking the opportunity, the Dinoco racer left his friend behind and started working his way through the pack.

“Tough field today, ain’t it?” his crew chief commented as he once again became stuck behind a three-wide row.

“Mhm,” he answered, suppressing his frustration.

He looked ahead. Tori was leading, and had been for some time. There hadn’t been any obnoxious loose newspapers on the track when _he_ ran _his_ qualifying lap. At this rate, the Ford was on track to win the race.

Strip spaced out, waiting for another gap to open up. Being blockaded like this made every lap feel the same – routine and boring. He tried to think of another way through, but short of physically shoving them out of the way, there was nothing he could do.

“Want me to take care of this for you?” that familiar voice asked from behind him.

“Sammy, I thought I left you in the dust.” Strip moved half a lane down, affording his friend room to move up. If he was going to be bored, he might as well have company.

“Naw,” Sammy denied, joining him, “see, I thought of a good comeback after you took off. I had to come chase you down to get even.”

“The moment’s gone, man.”

“Wanna get up there and give ol’ Tor a run for his money?” Sammy asked after a brief pause, lamenting the loss of opportunity to use a not-so-quick-witted response.

“Yeah, if I could just – ”

“Go low! Go low!” Strip’s crew chief yelled over the radio. “Wreck in four!”

That rookie they noticed earlier had worked his way up behind Tori, but not before accidentally pushing another racer into the wall coming out of turn four.

Strip instinctively veered to his left, but not before chaos erupted around him. The car that had been pushed into the wall got t-boned by an oncoming racer on the outside, and as the second victim of the crash rolled away from the wall and down the track, the rest of the field was caught up.

In a vain attempt to keep from rear-ending the racers in front of him, Sammy braked hard and tried to swing to the left behind Strip, and though the Plymouth was already in the clear on the apron, he accidentally clipped him in the right rear fender. Sammy swore as he spun out toward the inner wall, watching one of his closest friends careen right into the heart of the commotion.

Strip lost all control the moment Sammy collided with him. His rear end swung out from under him, pointing him back toward the track. Another racer, who’d previously been skirting the accident half a lane above Strip, caught him in the side and sent him airborne toward the catch fence. Sparks flew as he collided with the mesh wiring and fell to the asphalt. A few lingering seconds of metal hitting metal and scraping pavement ended with quiet.

“Boy, you alright?” his crew chief asked in an urgent tone.

Strip looked around and regained his bearings. He’d landed shiny-side up, so that was a plus. Nothing felt broken, surprisingly. He rolled forward under his own power and found himself functional.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, wincing as the dull pain from countless dents registered.

He limped his way to pit row on flat tires alongside the other injured racers that could still drive. His spoiler wobbled uncomfortably, loose and bent on its supports. That was going to have to be a special order fix. One downside of being a modified racecar was the lack of spare parts freely laying around.

“Well, wasn’t expectin’ today to turn out like this,” the Dinoco blue truck said as Strip came to a halt in their box. “Looks mostly cosmetic, though. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Strip sighed. It wasn’t the first time he’d crashed out of a race, and it likely wouldn’t be his last, but he hated starting something and being unable to finish.

“Hm,” the crew chief looked down at him. “We’ll get you checked out anyway. I’d put you back in if your wing didn’t look like a bent paperclip.”

The Dinoco crew cruised off to their sponsor tent after giving their racer a new set of wheels. As they approached, Tex met them with a look of concern.

“That ain’t gonna buff out,” the glittering Cadillac stated after looking his racer over. “Just ain’t our week, is it?”

“It’ll be alright.” Strip shrugged. “We’ll get ‘em next week.”

Lynda appeared from around the backside of the tent where they’d been watching the race. She winced as she saw her husband, but put on a soft smile for him as she approached.

“Ow,” she commented. “I think that was your first time in the fence, am I right?”

“Mm-hm,” he confirmed. “Not as soft as it looks.”

To their left, a tow truck pulled Sammy into the onsite care clinic. The Chevy’s hood resembled an accordion, all scrunched up from head-on impact with the inner wall. From the front wheels forward, the Caterpillar racer looked like a derby car that had seen better days.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he called to them, speech slurred as if he couldn’t feel his mouth. “It was an accident this time, I swear.”

Team Dinoco watched on as he disappeared into the tent.

“That makes four that’s gone in there,” Lynda observed. “Hope they’re okay.”

“I’m sure they will be.” Strip watched as the track’s security detail blocked reporters from nearing the tent.

“I’m surprised you didn’t break anythin’ important,” Tex looked to his racer again. “I didn’t think you were gonna drive out of that one.”

“Roll cage helped. I wasn’t goin’ that fast when I hit,” Strip summarized.

“Fast enough to catch some air,” Tex pointed out. “I’ll call in an order for new parts. Have them send someone to check you out and put you back together before next weekend.”

“Great,” Strip said more sarcastically then he’d meant.

Some time ago, Tex had set up a connection with the OEM parts manager at Chrysler. With a little inside help, he was able to get the non-stock parts Strip actually needed, but this also meant he couldn’t send his racer to just any garage to be fixed. Chrysler had to send down a specialized technician when repairs exceeded minor bodywork. Tex paid them handsomely, but Strip still felt it was an inconvenience.

With nearly half the field out of the race, the finish was uneventful. Tori maintained his lead. The car that caused the crash never fell further back than third, and finished second. Another middle-of-the-pack racer took third.

In Victory Lane, the media swarmed the top three finishers as they posed with their trophies, leaving the other racers with a bit of peace. Strip milled about in front of the Dinoco tent with Lynda, talking with friends and a few straggling reporters that wanted any interview they could get. Eventually, Sammy emerged from the clinic. He didn’t look much better for wear, but at least he wasn’t leaking brake fluid all over the ground anymore.

“Looks like you picked a fight with the wrong wall, Sammy,” Lynda greeted him as he drove up to them.

“Yeah,” Sammy sighed, settling into his suspension in defeat. “Maybe. I can’t feel my bumper.”

“Try the fence next time,” Strip recommended. “It’s much nicer.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” he returned sarcastically. “Next time I’ll do that. Because I’ll have a choice next time.”

Strip laughed a little. “Glad to see you ain’t really hurt, though.”

“Same. Turns out the receiving end of these wrecks ain’t quite as pleasant as dishin’ ‘em out.”

“Just stay at the front of field. Problem solved.”

Sammy rolled his eyes and gestured toward the pedestals. “Works for Tori, I guess. And you, most of the time.”

Strip watched as Tori smiled for the cameras. It was a little strange, not being up there with him. The two of them usually placed next to each other.

“So, talk of the clinic just now,” Sammy continued, changing the subject, “that new guy up there. Finally figured out who he is. Name’s Chick Hicks. What kind of a name is that?”

“One that’s easy to remember, I guess. Stage name?”

“No, that’s for real his actual name,” Sammy explained. “Ridiculous, right? Dude came out of nowhere with some small, local bank as his sponsor. Placed top ten twice already. You’d think someone like that would learn how to hold a line.”

“He’ll figure it out.” Strip projected. “Best way to learn somethin’ is to make a mistake.”

“You a mage of wisdom, now?” Sammy eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’re makin’ me feel old.”

Strip glanced back up at the podiums off in the distance. Tori was fully engaged in an interview from the top platform.

“I have an idea,” he said as a plan formed in his mind. “Sammy, you up for somethin’?”

“Oh, no,” Lynda murmured.

“I like where you’re goin’ with this,” Sammy followed his friend’s gaze toward Victory Lane. “Go on.”

“You know how Tori likes his trailer all organized and clean? Be a shame if somethin’ happened to it.”

“I’m leavin’ before y’all incriminate me by association,” Lynda commented, backing away from them. “I’m gonna go talk to sensible cars, like Tex.”

“Have fun bein’ bored!” Sammy called after her.

Strip watched her drive away with a smile on his face. “Alright, so here’s what I have in mind…”


	16. Part 2, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chick learns his own techniques as he races, Strip and the older racers have to learn to adapt.

The season was nearly over, only two weeks left until the Dinoco 400. Strip had a good shot at winning the championship again that year, and everyone knew it.

It wasn’t just because he was good at racing. It was partly that, but also because the field of experienced racers had thinned dramatically over the last few months. There had been a major wreck at nearly every race, and many of the veterans were unable to finish the season due to extensive repairs. Their sponsors had been forced to bring in temporary replacements. These younger, less skilled cars weren’t much of a threat to Strip and his fellow seasoned racers, but they did change the field dynamics.

After he’d caused that first wreck that placed him second, Chick discovered that racing dirty played in his favor. The Buick turned out to be one of the faster new kids, and didn’t let anything or anyone slow him down. If there wasn’t room for him to pass another racer, he’d make room. If there was someone in his way, they weren’t there for long. He’d independently dispatched more intentional violence on the track in the past year than anyone else had in an entire career – even Sammy.

The main difference between Hicks and Sammy was that Chick wasn’t likable off the track. No one seemed to want to hang around him, as he seemed to do nothing but elevate himself and talk down to others. The media loved his confident, arrogant attitude, and that only reinforced the things his fellow racers had grown to dislike.

As the season drew to a close, the Piston Cup circuit brought the racers and their teams to Georgia. The competition was hotter than ever with only two races before the championship. Everyone that stood the slightest chance at winning pushed their way forward, trying to rack up as many points as possible. Though Hicks hadn’t placed particularly well throughout the season, he’d managed to bully his way to the front of the field early on. The other racers seemed hesitant to come near him, fearing another trip to the clinic.

Strip had the Grand National in his sights with only twenty laps to go. He’d never directly interacted with the kid, but maybe he needed to, if for nothing else than to at least try and knock some sense into him. Racing was a competitive sport, but not one that begged violence. He’d watched a lot of his friends get hurt that year.

Catching up to Hicks wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t _that_ fast, but Strip knew he had to be careful getting around him or else he’d be pushed into the wall or knocked off the track like so many others. Twenty laps gave him time though, and with only one other car in front of the rookie, he didn’t need to hurry. He hung back for a moment and analyzed his options.

“Hey man,” Tori pulled up next to Strip as they came out of turn four. “I wouldn’t normally suggest teamin’ up like this, but we need to teach this kid a lesson. I’m tired of watchin’ everyone else crash out. You know, he can’t get us both at the same time.”

“You have a plan?” Strip asked.

“He’s using the middle groove. We can both get around him at the same time. I’ll go high if you go low next straightaway.” Tori offered. “He won’t know what to do.”

“Worth a shot.” Strip agreed.

Coming out of turn two, Hicks drifted towards the middle of the track, giving the older racers the opportunity they were looking for. They gained on him quickly. As they passed him, Chick panicked. He had a real chance at winning that race, but if they both got past him, that chance would be gone.

Going into turn three, Strip stayed low, close to the line to pull away from the Buick. It earned him the lead he wanted, but Tori was still caught in the outside. Chick saw his chance and took it. He pushed Tori’s rear end out from under him, sending him spinning towards the inside.

The rest of the field came up on them quickly, with Tori sideways in the middle of the track. He took a hard hit in his left side from another racer. The pileup escalated from there.

Strip heard the wreck behind him, and looked back to see just how bad it was. He saw Tori’s body fly and tumble into the infield, and several others hit the wall, colliding with each other.

Chick was perfectly fine, in the clear and trying to draft him.

The race officials stopped the race to clean up the wreckage. Strip sat in the pits, fuming with rage. He didn’t anger easily, but this had crossed the line. Only about a dozen racers were left to finish the remaining eighteen laps. He watched Tori get a tow to the clinic. He couldn’t tell if his friend was conscious or not.

Chick was going to pay. Strip saw him five pit boxes ahead of him, laughing it up with his crew. Of the five spaces between them, only one other racer was present. It wasn’t right.

Strip managed to restart the race in second place, right behind the rookie. The flag dropped and they were off again. He gained his momentum back as quickly as he could and waited for the perfect moment. The other racers were well behind him, allowing him to concentrate on how he was going to beat this kid. Strip knew he would never wreck anyone on purpose, as tempting as it was at that point. He wasn’t about to lower himself to that level. No, he was going to humiliate Chick the way he knew best, by winning.

As they crossed the finish line heading into the final lap, Chick and Strip were a solid four car lengths ahead of the remaining racers. It was time. Strip started to put pressure on him as they went around the first two turns. Chick noticed and started to drift away from his line in order to block the older racer. Strip acted as if he were letting off, fooling Chick into thinking he’d scared him away.

The moment they came out of turn four, Strip turned every last ounce of his frustration and anger into speed and blew past Chick on the outside, taking the checkered flag by several feet. He heard the Buick shout as he passed him, but didn’t know whether it was in surprise or anger. He didn’t stick around to find out.

He didn’t even take a victory lap or do a burnout to celebrate the fact he’d just won the race. The roaring crowd was the last thing on his mind. He pulled right off the track, passed his celebrating crew, and made his way to the infield hospital where they were treating the injured. Victory Lane could wait.

The medical staff let him in, as they’d already ensured everyone’s stability. Strip knew that most of the field had been rendered not race-worthy, but he didn’t realize so many had taken on damage this serious. A lot of them were young kids. The sight of so many wrecked bodies and painful expressions sent an eerie chill through him. It was all too familiar.

“Did you win?” He heard a tired voice ahead of him and to the left. “Please tell me you won.”

“Hey there, Tor.” Strip drove up to face his injured friend. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Good.” Tori let out a ragged sigh of relief.

The Hurst racer looked terrible. Entire panels were missing, and it was obvious his frame was twisted. The medical staff had him hooked up to two different machines. Strip didn’t know their purpose.

“How you feelin’?” he asked his friend. “You’re lookin’ pretty rough.”

“Is that all?” Tori tried to laugh, but winced at the effort and grew more serious and sighed. “I know what death looks like, Strip. I… I didn’t know I was so scared of it ‘til now.”

Strip wasn’t used to hearing his friend speak like that. Tori was always the lighthearted one that masterminded the pranks. He was the one that always had the punchline to the joke.

“You’re gonna be alright, Tori,” he told him. “They’ll get you fixed up and back out there in no time.”

Tori looked down at his crumpled hood. “I don’t know. I think I might be done, man.”

“What?” Strip rolled back a few inches, shocked. “Done? But you’re still one of the best – you could win the championship this year.”

Tori managed to crack a smile, but the look in his eyes was still sad. “I didn’t wanna believe it either, but if this is what the sport has turned into, then I don’t wanna be a part of it. I’m not going to sit back and watch all these innocent kids be led to the slaughterhouse because the race officials won’t restrict the actions this new guy’s taking. They deserve better, and dang it, we do too.”

“Well, what if they do make a new rule?” Strip asked, not wanting one of his closest friends to quit his passion so young. “They do it all the time. Maybe next year they’ll say that things like this can’t be intentional, or somethin’. Maybe they’ll up the penalty.”

“Then it’ll be that much better for everyone else.” Tori explained calmly and quietly. “I’ve had a good run. I can’t complain.”

Strip frowned. He realized that Tori had made up his mind, and he respected it, despite how much it disappointed him. Things were about to be a lot different.

“Now, don’t you have a trophy or somethin’ to go claim?” Tori asked, trying to lighten the mood a little. “Get out there. I’m not going anywhere. You can come back when you’re done.”

“Alright.” Strip backed away and turned to go back through the entrance. “You take care of yourself.”

He passed the rows of injured bodies on his way out of the building and felt the anger start to rise again, but it wasn’t just that. As he left the tent, Jake passed him, looking frantic, so frantic in fact, that he didn’t acknowledge Strip’s presence. The kid just wanted to know if his dad was going to live. Strip’s conscious started to blur the similarities of the current situation with the last time he’d been at the factory.

This was Chick’s fault. In his anger, Strip decided he was going to go give the new kid a piece of his mind.

The media swarmed Victory Lane, wondering where he’d gone. Strip approached the area from behind, avoiding having to fight his way through the reporters as he made his way to the stage. It was a podium finish, and Chick and the third place racer were already on their stands, talking to the interviewers. Before Strip made his appearance, he heard Chick talking to the crowd of reporters. He stopped to listen.

“What these guys?” Chick responded to an unheard question. “The racers we saw today are nothing. They’re either old and outdated or young and completely inexperienced. Neither belong on the track, not if they can’t handle the racing tactics of today.”

The Dinoco racer narrowed his eyes. So that was how Chick saw the world. Strip had seen this kind of attitude before, and every racer that acted similarly either didn’t last long or didn’t win a lot. Those types didn’t change their ways via a little constructive criticism. Chick was a prime example of how lust for fame and attention could destroy a good racer. Only time would show it.

No. He wasn’t going to talk to him. Chick wasn’t worth his time. His words would mean nothing to someone like that, and he wasn’t about to get wrapped up in race track drama.

_You want to wreck my friends and try to start a new era of your own? Go ahead. We’ll see how far that gets you._

Strip emerged and took the top pedestal, putting on a smile for the cameras that all turned toward him.

“Well look who finally showed up.” Chick muttered, as suddenly no one wanted to talk to him.

Strip didn’t give any inclination that he’d heard him. A race official presented him with a golden first place trophy and slipped away as the reporters pushed as far forward as they could. The camera flashes were blinding.

“Weathers, is the new generation of racers threatening to dethrone you?”

“With so many veterans out for the count, how’s your outlook on your career?”

“Thoughts on the upcoming championship race?”

The barrage of questions unsettled him ever so slightly, but he didn’t show it. Usually, they asked for a dedication of sorts or how he felt about winning the race. He’d never been questioned about the path of his career, as if it were ending soon. He cleared his throat to answer, and was met with quiet anticipation.

“Nothing’s changed here. New racers, older racers, under the hood, we’re all more or less the same.” He hesitated briefly, carefully phrasing his next words to be as indirect as possible. “These new racers are young and full of energy and all, but it’s experience and skill that wins races, not pure speed and force. I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I fully intend on winning the 400 later this month.”


	17. Part 2, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izzy shows up to a race, bearing bad news, as always.

The strong response incited an excited roar from the crowd. Strip smiled for a few more pictures, but didn’t answer any more questions. He took his trophy and backed down from the pedestal, meeting one of his crewmembers behind the stage.

“That was short,” the pittie, Luke, commented. “Y’know, I was really lookin’ forward to you chewing that kid out. I’ve only seen you angry, like, twice. It’s excitin’.”

Strip gave Luke the trophy to carry for him. “Not worth my time. Either he’ll learn on his own or he won’t. None of my business.”

The forklift cast a suspicious look at his racer. “I know that tone, you can’t fool me. You ain’t exactly amped about the win, are you?”

“I’m just tired of watchin’ everyone crash,” Strip muttered. “Doesn’t feel like a win when there’s no real competition.”

“Ha!” Luke laughed. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Now if you’d go say that to his face.”

“I think he got the message.”

It was true. As Strip left Victory Lane, he overheard a couple questions thrown at Chick, questioning his previous statement on the racers of yesterday. Though he hadn’t stayed to listen to the answers, he glanced at the Buick and found him looking agitated.

Over at the sponsor’s tent, the team was still celebrating. The moment Strip and Luke came into view with the trophy they erupted into cheers. Somewhere in the back, someone set off a confetti canon, and Strip found himself in the middle of a swarm that consisted of his pit crew and the ever-eager Dinoco girls.

“Alright girls, move aside,” his favorite voice said from beyond the sea of celebration.

They parted like the Red Sea, making way for Lynda. She was all smiles as she planted a quick kiss on her husband’s lips. In her presence, he relaxed a little.

“Vengeance as a motivator, huh?” she asked lightheartedly. “Works well for you.”

Strip shrugged as he watched the masses that had just mobbed him parade the trophy into the Dinoco tent. “You could tell?”

“Plain as day.” She drove with him as he made his way over to Tex. “Also, you just left the track after you were done. You don’t usually do that.”

“I had to make sure Tori was alright, that’s all.”

“Is he?”

“He’ll live. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Lynda’s excitement faded a bit as she noticed his tone. Winning races didn’t normally leave him so reserved and solemn.

“There’s my boy!” Tex exclaimed heartily as they approached him.

“Hey, Tex.” Strip forced a smile.

“I ain’t seen a finish like that in years,” the Cadillac beamed. “You sure showed that kid who the real king of the track is.”

“Please, no,” Strip moaned. “Not the name thing again.”

Tex chuckled. “Oh, come on. I’m jokin’. It does sound good, though, don’t it?”

“I think it’s cute,” Lynda offered, giving Strip a nudge.  “You’ll warm up to it.”

“No, I won’t.”

In front of the tent, they heard a cork pop from a bottle. They turned to see the pit crew circled around Luke, cheering him on as he chugged an entire bottle of champagne.

“Oh, yeah,” Strip commented, his words dripping with sarcasm. “That there’s an excellent image for the company.”

“That was supposed to be for you,” Tex grumbled, shaking himself in disapproval.

“Honestly, at this point, I could use some,” Strip mumbled to Lynda.

She smiled and leaned against him. “We’ll celebrate when we get home.”

“I’m holdin’ you to that.”

“Please do.”

“I’m gonna go break ‘em up before they get carried away,” Tex said, driving toward his employees as they reached for a second bottle. “If Rotor gets into that, we’re all in trouble.”

“Y’all’re real professionals,” Lynda commented as the crew scattered like pigeons on a sidewalk at Tex’s presence.

“All in good fun. Tex would never fire a one of ‘em, you know,” Strip added.

“Oh, I know, I was just – ”

“Just what?” He looked at her and found her staring past him into the crowd.

“That can’t be good.”

He followed her gaze and tensed. Coming through the crowd outside the gated area was a tall black spoiler that otherwise nearly matched his own.

“Is it too late to hide?” he mumbled, driving toward the security guards at the gate. They’d never let her in, and he wasn’t about to watch her make a scene.

The two large SUVs had just started to escort her away from the entrance when she saw him coming. She pointed at him and protested.

“She’s fine, guys. Let her go,” Strip called to them.

The Suburbans turned to look at him. “You know this car?”

“Yeah, she’s with me. Come on, Iz,” he waved her over.

She cautiously drove between the imposing guards and joined him, noticeably rattled. He escorted her back over to where he’d left Lynda.

“Are those guys always that strict?” Izzy asked. “I didn’t come down here to get manhandled.”

“They’re just doin’ their job,” Strip answered.

“Gotta keep the crazies out, y’know?” Lynda added.

“If you’re talking about all the drunk motorhomes over there, then yeah, I guess I can see it,” Izzy muttered, looking off in the direction she’d come.

“So,” Lynda talked straight to the point, “I gotta ask – is the sky fallin’ again up north?”

“What?” Izzy snapped her attention back to her brother and sister-in-law. “Oh, no. Things are fine for the most part.”

“I think you’ll forgive me if I find your sudden appearance a bit suspicious,” Strip said. “Last time didn’t exactly go so well.”

“Yeah, no, I understand,” Izzy apologized. “Sorry for not letting you know I was coming sooner. Oh, congrats on the win, by the way. That was something. Races are much more exciting in person, drunk motorhomes and all.”

A yelp came from the tent to their left. Tex had dumped the bucket of ice that previously chilled the champagne on Luke as joking punishment for handing Rotor the last bottle of booze. The billionaire left his employee shocked and wet, the laughing stock of the rest of the crew, and turned back to rejoin his racer. The helicopter sat smugly on top of the display stage and sipped the drink, watching the scene unfold below him.

“Well, who’s this?” Tex asked, seeing their group had gained a member.

“Tex, this is my sister,” Strip introduced.

“I’m Izzy,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” Tex bowed a little out of courtesy. “Glad you could join us.”

“I have a trunk full of parts I believe you ordered,” Izzy continued. “Two special order spoiler kits and some fender patches?”

“Ah, yes,” Dinoco nodded.

“What?” Strip asked, confused.

“You keep beatin’ yourself up, boy,” Tex explained. “I’m stock pilin’ parts for the next time you end up in the fence. I hate waitin’ on orders. Looks like they gave me first class air delivery this time?”

Izzy went silent and looked at Strip, unsettled.

“Oh, he knows everythin’. You’re fine,” Strip told her.

“Everything?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry,” Tex chimed in. “Your secret’s safe with me. I ain’t tellin’ a soul. You’re welcome ‘round here anytime.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you,” Izzy smiled and nodded in gratefulness, although still slightly anxious. “Yeah, I was coming down anyway, thought I’d give the delivery guy a break.”

“Why’d you come all the way to Georgia?” Strip asked, still suspicious. “The next race is in Michigan. That’d be a whole lot more convenient for you.”

“Am I not allowed to come hang out with you for the heck of it?” she asked humorously. “You have too many questions.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Izzy sighed. “Alright. Well first off, I did want to see you race, so there’s that. I also have some information for you, but we can’t talk here. Too risky to be overheard.”

“On a scale of one to death, how distressin’ is this ‘information’?” Lynda asked, unamused.

“Oh, trust me. This isn’t anything like last time. I just have some concerns, that’s all,” Izzy tried to quell her apprehension.

“Hm,” Strip was still unconvinced, and he could tell his wife was on edge as well. “Well, after things die down a bit here, we’re going to head back home for a couple days. We can talk there.”

“I’ll fly ahead and meet you there.”

Back in the peaceful mountains of North Carolina, Izzy met Strip and Lynda at their home. It was early in the morning, the sky grey with fog and a slow-to-rise sun. Had the circumstances been different, it would have been perfect for lazily sleeping in.

“It’s nice out here. Peaceful,” Izzy commented, looking around their property.

“You should come stay for a weekend or somethin’ sometime,” Lynda offered. “I think you’d like it.”

Izzy nodded and took in a deep breath of the clean, crisp air as Strip unlocked the front door. It was all so totally different from what she was used to, she’d never taken the time to think about it before. No wonder her brother liked it so much out here. Things seemed slower, more laid back, and for a moment, she was content. It was a strange feeling.

Strip groggily drove inside and flipped some lights on. Lynda and Izzy followed him silently.

“Alright, let’s get this over with. What’d’ya got, Izzy?” Strip asked as he parked at the kitchen table.

Lynda joined him as Izzy pushed a couple photos in front of them.

“Ford’s Buick that mysteriously fell off the face of the earth?” Izzy explained tersely. “We found him.”

Strip reached out and flipped the photos right side up. They were grainy, but he could make out the car in question. He caught his breath.

“One of our intelligence agents took those while snooping around outside Ford’s HQ,” she continued. “I didn’t believe it when I first saw them, but the evidence is there.”

There were three photos, and all of them showed the same four vehicles. There were two black forklifts guiding an older 1950s Ford Business Coupe and a Grand National. The older car was Stephen, Ford’s insistent CEO, Strip knew that much. But the Buick? He wasn’t jet black anymore. He was green and covered in tasteless racing livery.

“So you’re tryin’ to tell me,” Strip summarized, “that that Hicks guy is the same car that took us all out? That was controllin’ those Mustangs?”

“One and the same,” Izzy confirmed.

“How can that be a coincidence?” Lynda asked, frowning. “I mean, that he’d end up on the circuit, too?”

Izzy shrugged. “Beats me. My first though was that he figured out that’s where Strip went and followed, but now I’m not so sure.”

Strip grimaced and shook himself in disbelief. “I don’t think that’s the case. If he was comin’ after me, he’d have done somethin’ by now.”

“I mean, he _is_ constantly wrecking everyone,” Izzy pointed out.

“Yeah, but no one’s ever specifically targeted,” Strip explained. “He’s just tryin’ to win.”

They were quiet for a moment as Strip looked closer at the pictures. He couldn’t deny it. The third picture showed Chick with his fender-mounted weapon exposed. He and Stephen were conversing in a highly restricted area of Ford’s own proving grounds, entering into one of the buildings. Neither one of them looked particularly pleased to be in each other’s presence.

“How long ago were these taken?” Strip asked.

“A couple weeks ago. The week before the race in Indy, if I remember right,” Izzy answered. “He would have had enough time to take a trip to Detroit that week before the race since he was in the vicinity.”

Strip pushed the pictures back toward his sister. She gathered them and sat, expectantly awaiting some sort of feedback. When he didn’t oblige immediately, she continued.

“You needed to know,” Izzy told them, “both of you. I wasn’t going to let you be out on a track with this guy without your awareness at the very least.”

“No, I appreciate you tellin’ me,” Strip responded, still deep in thought. “It just doesn’t make sense. Why willingly sign up for a war and then leave to race?”

“Seems like an attention seeker if you ask me,” Lynda offered.

“Yeah,” Izzy agreed. “I’ve seen the interviews. I wanted to strangle him even before I found all this out. Maybe he just found an opportunity to race and took it. Racing seems a lot easier on the conscious than killing, and offers exponentially more glory.”

“Maybe.” Strip sighed. “I guess it doesn’t really matter _why_ he’s doin’ what he’s doin’, we just need to keep an eye on him.”

“I think that’s all we can do,” Izzy nodded. “He doesn’t seem like an immediate threat, other than his habit of wrecking everyone, but we know what he’s capable of, and we need to be wary of that.”

“So long as he doesn’t know what I am, I reckon we’re safe,” Strip said.

“Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to make you paranoid, but if you suspect he’s up to something, he probably is. Trust your instinct.”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I think I can handle him. Honestly, I think the public eye is the safest place to be. If he genuinely wants to race, he won’t do anythin’ to compromise what he’s got.”

“I hope you’re right.”

A wave of relief washed over them as they reached as solid of a conclusion as possible, one that wasn’t unrealistic. Outside, rays of sunlight were beginning to filter through the trees and evaporate the fog. Through the windows, they could hear the morning birdsong pick up. They sat and listened to it for several long moments.

“Iz, you can stay for a while if you’re tired,” Strip offered. “I don’t want you to fly home exhausted.”

“Yeah, we have room. Plenty of it,” Lynda added. “You’re always welcome to stay.”

Izzy smiled and looked down. “Thanks, but I’m actually feeling a lot better now. I think I’ll be fine. But I promise I’ll come visit this off season when you guys are free. I think I need to vacation down here.”

“We’ll plan on it.”

Strip followed her to the door and out onto the porch with Lynda in tow. Izzy hesitated and looked around once more. Something in the air made her feel free. It was intoxicating.

“Got plans for the holidays?” she asked.

“You tell me,” Strip answered.

“I’ll be down.”

The Weathers’ watched her drive away into the tree line. A couple minutes later, there was a roar akin to a jet taking off in the near distance.

“You’re awful lucky to have her around, you know that?” Lynda said as they filed back inside.

“Yeah,” he sincerely agreed. “She’s saved my hide on a couple different occasions.”

“I think I owe her for that,” she cozied up next to him as he backed into his favorite spot in their living room.

They were silent for a while, enjoying peace and comfort in each other’s presence.

“We have three days of this before we gotta leave again,” Lynda said after a while. “What do we wanna do?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Ain’t we supposed to be celebratin’?”


	18. Part 3, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going into the 2006 season, Strip makes the decision to retire. Then, he receives some news he's not prepared for.

“How’s it feel?”

Strip looked at the open trailers in his front yard and the two haulers, idly waiting for him and his wife. He heard Lynda come out of the house behind him and lock the door before joining him. This was it. This was the last time he’d ever ride in his own trailer to the first race of a season. He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling. It was somewhere in the middle of a triangle that consisted of melancholy, anticipation, and joyful acceptance.

“It’s… somethin’, Tex,” Strip responded, looking toward his sponsor. “I guess I never really thought I’d see the end.”

Tex chuckled. “Well, I ain’t gonna keep you from changin’ your mind, you know.”

“No, no. I’ve made the decision.” Strip looked at Lynda. “There’s still a lot yet I wanna do.”

She smiled at him and gave him a loving nudge on the fender. “Y’know, for a while, I thought you weren’t ever gonna retire.”

“I didn’t ever think I’d want to,” he replied. “But I think it’s time.”

Nearly twenty years had passed since his closest racing friends left the circuit. It’d been two decades since the crash that ended Tori’s career. As the 1980s came to close, he’d found himself alone on the circuit, surrounded by replacements and newcomers. He thought his career might have been over then as well, but he kept winning. It was as though he couldn’t stop. Only last year he’d won his seventh Piston Cup, establishing his dominance once more on the track.

Times kept changing. He was the only car of his generation left in the series, and had been for several years. The younger cars weren’t so much of a threat to his success, but he couldn’t shake that feeling of loneliness. The other racers revered him as a legend, keeping a respectable distance from him while they laughed and socialized with each other, just as he once had. Strip’s love of racing had brought him this far, but he knew when enough was enough. It was time to let the youngsters have their days in the sun.

“Y’know, the media’s gonna have a heyday when you announce your intentions,” Tex mentioned. “Lot of fans are gonna be real sad about it.”

“Tex, quit tryin’ to guilt trip him,” Lynda scolded.

“You’ll find another racer, Tex,” Strip assured him. “I’ll even help you look. How about that?”

“I’m puttin’ that in your contract,” Tex replied in a serious tone. “You’re gonna be lawfully bound by that statement.”

“Yeah, alright.” Strip smiled at Tex’s dry sarcasm. “Lyn, you ready to go?”

“Ready as always,” she returned. “You ready to race?”

“You bet.”

She placed a quick kiss on his fender and went to back into her trailer. The thought of retirement brought to the forefront of Strip’s mind all she’d done to support him over the years. She’d built her life around his just so they could be together when he was on the road. He’d decided his retirement was going to be dedicated to her and all the things they never got to do in their younger years. That was the part he looked forward to the most.

Tex watched as his star racer turned and backed into his own trailer.

“I’ll see you at the track, King,” the Cadillac called out before Strip could close the door to his trailer. “Got a couple things to wrap up here before I go. Rotor’ll give me a lift.”

“Daytona’s a long flight. Take care of yourself,” Strip told him.

“Don’t wreck before I get there,” Tex said in return.

Their departing banter happened like clockwork. As the haulers pulled away, Tex thought about how he was going to miss it after this year. His friend had been the face of Dinoco since the beginning, as he built the company from a modest American business into an international corporate giant. They had more than thirty years of business and friendship built between them. That sort of relationship couldn’t be replaced.

Out on the road, Strip thought back over his career. He’d certainly made a name for himself, simply by doing the one thing he loved. It said so on the outside of his trailer, and on nearly every piece of Dinoco merchandise. “The King rules with Dinoco.” They almost never used his real name anymore, and though he resisted at first, he’d grown tolerant of it. Sometimes there was just no arguing with the boss.

He’d won seven championships over the years, _seven_. That’s what had earned him the name. That and, of course, marketing ploys. Heck, they started throwing it around after two championships and a record number of total wins that continued to climb. The one record he just couldn’t seem to beat, however, was the Fabulous Hudson Hornet’s for most wins in a single season. While he’d come close a couple times, he never could quite get there. Oddly enough, he was happy about that. He wouldn’t feel right one-upping his inspiration.

“How you gonna break the news, King?” Gray asked through their video comm.

Strip looked out the window as they wound through the mountains toward the interstate and shifted his train of thought.

“I don’t know, Gray,” he answered truthfully. “I think Tex was right about there bein’ a big to-do about it, though.”

“That’s for sure,” the semi agreed. “I sure am gonna miss pullin’ you around everywhere.”

“Well, don’t get all sentimental on me yet,” Strip told him. “We still have a whole season left to go.”

Six hours later, they were less than a hundred miles from Daytona. Strip awoke from a nap reenergized and ready to get a few practice laps in. He could feel the change in air quality coming through the circulation unit. It hinted ever so slightly of the ocean.

He reached over to the controls on his left with the intention of calling over to Lynda’s trailer. It was habit that they’d call and wake each other up on long trips before they got to their destination. However, before his tire ever hit the dial pad, the display lit up and started ringing.

 _Unknown caller._ He hesitated briefly, but recognized the number displayed on the digital screen. That Michigan area code was much too familiar.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Strip?” the voice asked through the phone. “Wow, I actually managed to get ahold of you.”

“Uh, hold on,” Strip scrambled to cut the communications between him and Gray.

Even though Tex knew about his northern connections, the team remained clueless. He preferred to keep it that way. Once he was sure no one could hear their conversation, he started talking again.

“Hey, Izzy, what’s happenin’?”

“Well, that’s what we’re calling to tell you.” That was Rick’s voice.

“Yeah, things… well, they’re starting to move again up here,” Izzy said.

“What do you mean?” Strip asked, an edge creeping into his voice. “Guys, it’s been _twenty_ years.”

“Putting this out there now, it’s got nothing to do with Ford,” Rick blurted in an attempt to suppress any suspicions. “It’s GM.”

“That’s not exactly reassurin’,” Strip said quietly.

“Now, hold on, don’t jump to conclusions. It’s good. This is good news,” Rick rattled off, sounding more jittery than usual.

Strip sat quietly, suspicious. He’d never once gotten an out-of-the-blue call from Rick that contained good news. In fact, Rick never talked him at all, unless he was around at the same time Izzy decided to call.

“I’ve had several meetings with Paul – you remember Paul Orchard, over at General Motors, right?” Rick asked, paused, and then continued when Strip didn’t answer. “He approached me a couple weeks back, and guess what? He said he doesn’t want to have anything to do with the fighting.”

“Yeah, well, that was obvious from the lack of participation,” Strip pointed out.

“Well, see now, he explained that as well,” Rick said. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. He’s finally built his contender for the war. Just one car. He spent years thinking about how best to play the cards to his advantage, so to speak, and he thinks he’s done it.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Rick,” Strip interrupted. “Why’s he tellin’ you all this in the first place?”

“We signed an alliance!” Izzy jumped in, excitedly. “We’re on the same side now!”

Strip frowned. “What?”

Rick muttered to Izzy, telling her to calm down before speaking into the phone again. “Strip, we just want this conflict to end. The only thing that’s keeping us from having peace again is Stephen’s insistence. We’re going to end this, and Paul’s agreed to help us. Which brings me back to my point.”

The flat screen television flickered to life above him to show a couple different diagrams.

“You’ve hacked my trailer,” Strip observed, unamused. “Come on, Rick.”

“I’m not spying you, I promise. I just need to show you this before you get to the track,” Rick insisted. “Paul built one car to stand in for GM in the war. The genius behind it? This car has _no idea_ why he was built, so he can’t endanger himself by getting caught up in any fighting. Look, does this look like a car that can fight to you?”

Strip observed the pictures and felt dread creep through him. The pictures showed the blueprints of a newer racecar, nothing more. He didn’t look to have any sort of defense system, but on top of that, he looked eerily familiar.

“Guys, this is just a racer,” Strip protested. “And why does he look so familiar?”

“It’s that new rookie this year,” Izzy explained as the television screen transitioned to an RSN interview.

A red racecar sponsored by a company Strip had never even heard of was the center of attention. He was animated and flashy, full of confidence as Kori Turbowitz interviewed him.

“Lightning McQueen,” she directed his attention to her, “how does it feel coming into the Piston Cup series as a rookie going up against so many veteran racers?”

The racecar rolled his eyes as though she were asking a silly question. “Kori, Kori. Being a rookie is irrelevant. I’m here to race. I’m here to win, to show these older cars a thing or two about what’s possible out there.”

“There you have it…”

Strip moaned as Kori’s voice trailed off. He normally didn’t feel old, but the kids these days, they didn’t seem to have an ounce of respect for those that had raced before them. It wasn’t a new feeling, just one that reinforced his decision to retire while he was still in his prime.

“I still don’t understand,” Strip thought out loud. “Why a racer? Anything besides a racer woulda been much more subtle.”

“It’s worked for you, ain’t it?” Rick asked. “You’ve been hiding in plain sight this whole time, and so’s Chick. Why not throw one more in the mix?”

“I don’t like it, guys,” Strip said honestly. “That kid’s got no way of protecting himself if Chick comes after him. And I’m not going to be around to keep an eye on them much longer.”

“Huh?” Izzy asked with concern.

“This is my last year, Iz. I’m retirin’. It’s time.”

There was silence over the line as he let the news soak in. He sighed, and further considered Paul’s argument for creating a clueless opponent. The more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. It seemed like Paul had thought out his plan to a fault, like he’d convinced himself what he wanted to believe, and that didn’t agree with reality in the slightest.

“Listen, Rick,” Strip continued, “I don’t claim to know what’s goin’ on, and generally I trust your judgement, but somethin’ doesn’t feel right. Why create a car for a war that can’t fight? That doesn’t even know the danger he’s in? Why put him in the path of the most dangerous racer in history, who also happens to be the same guy that’s supposed to kill for glory? I don’t like it. At all.”

Rick paused before answering. “I get what you’re saying, Strip. When you put it like that, it does look pretty dismal. But I’m asking you to trust me. Either the kid will be as safe as a racecar can be, or he’ll trigger the official end of this war, one way or another.”

“Rick, I can’t watch another kid die,” Strip whispered. “I can’t.”

There was more silence as his television switched off. He could hear nothing but road noise outside his trailer for several long seconds.

“We’re going to do our best to end this peacefully,” Rick finally said. “Maybe Paul and I can convince Stephen to stop pulling the strings on the war machine. Maybe if he realizes he’s got no real opponent, he’ll stop.”

“We both know that’s unlikely to happen,” Strip argued.

“It’s worth a shot,” Rick told him. “It’s the only shot we have if we want a peaceful resolution. In the meantime, I want you to watch out for this kid. Let us know if you suspect anything. We’ll update you if something happens.”

“Alright,” Strip sighed. “Hey, thanks for tellin’ me.”

“Welcome,” Rick responded curtly. “Good luck in that race tomorrow.”

“I’ll be watching!” Izzy exclaimed. “You’ll put the hurt on those young guys, I know it.”

“Thanks guys. I’ll talk to you later.”

Strip ended the call, took a deep breath, and held it, eyes closed. When he felt somewhat relaxed again, he exhaled slowly and thought about the situation again, logically.

There were a few facts at his disposal. One, he was the defending champion and the car to beat. Two, Chick was growing more and more frustrated with coming in second. Every season he was a little more desperate to take home the championship the other racers kept just out of his reach. Three, Chick wasn’t afraid to use force to win. That had been clear from the beginning. And Four? That McQueen kid had no clue why he’d been made. He thought he was just a racer. It was likely he also thought the war was just a myth of years past.

If things stayed as they were, Lightning wouldn’t be in any more danger than any other racer that ran with Chick. A couple wrecks here and there were expected in their line of work, but what if Chick found out who Lightning was? He could wreck the kid, possibly even kill him, and never be held accountable. He could take out an opponent both in the race and in the war in one fell swoop. Then they’d all be back at square one.

Strip knew realistically that there wasn’t any immediate danger for him or the rookie, and if he had any say in the matter, it would stay that way. He was powerless except to wait and see how it played out.

“We’re an hour from Daytona, King,” Gray announced through the renewed video comm connection. “Florida International is waitin’ for us.”

Strip remembered what he’d been doing before the interruption. He called Lynda.


	19. Part 3, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Florida 500 sets the tone for the season. McQueen is more than anyone bargained for.

Aside from the Dinoco 400, the Florida 500 was arguably the most exciting race of the season. The race hadn’t even started and the speedway was already packed full of cars raring to get the new season started. Florida International Speedway always promised them action and thrilling finishes, and this year was unlikely to be different.

Strip exited his trailer and silently passed through the mob of reporters that greeted him, offering them nothing but a smile for the pictures. He drove away from the garages over to the flashy Dinoco tent where his team awaited him anxiously.

“Not a single interview?” Luke asked as the crew surrounded Strip to swap out his tires. “You’re just gonna leave them hangin’? You still ain’t announced your – ”

“Shut it, Luke,” Tex approached them. “Don’t wanna be spreadin’ rumors, now, do you?”

“It’s not a rumor!” Luke protested, pulling Strip’s front right tire off and slapping a new one on in its place. “And we all want to know what’s gonna happen afterward.”

“They’ll know before the end of the day, Luke,” Strip told him. “Don’t worry about it. Y’ain’t gonna lose your job when I leave, you know that, right?”

“My resume has a single line on it – seven words!” the forklift ranted sarcastically as they finished up. “‘Thirty years’ experience changing Strip Weathers’ tires.’ That’s it. That’s my only marketable talent.”

The other pit crewmembers snickered at Luke’s exaggeration. Tex smiled as Luke threw his forks up in exasperation.

“We’ll find another racer, boy. You guys ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Tex assured him. “Pit crew’s arguably the most important part of racin’, no?”

Luke mumbled something under his breath and puttered over in the direction of the pits. The others followed him to go get things set up.

“They’re gonna miss you, y’know,” Tex chuckled quietly.

“It ain’t like I’m gonna disappear. Y’all’re gettin’ too caught up in this,” Strip responded. “I swear if one more car gets all touchy about it, I’m gonna – ”

“Shh, here come the cameras,” Tex cut him off. “I’d head to the pits if I were you. Race is gonna start here soon.”

As Strip cruised down pit row to Dinoco’s box, he observed his competition. Most of the racers from the last couple of seasons were still there, ready and eager to get back on the track. As he passed, he could feel their gazes on him. Not a one of them said a word to him until he reached the top ten.

“Great day to kick off the season, hey King?” the younger red racer called to him.

“Sure is, Junior,” he responded, slowing down slightly as he passed the son of his late friend. “I’ll see you at the finish line, kid.”

Junior was one of only three or four racers that didn’t hesitate to talk to him. A couple of the racers from the eighties or early nineties would still occasionally drop by and say a few words, but his prominence in the sport and the constant attention from the media and his fans kept many away. To the eyes of the common beholder, he seemed untouchable, and though he could never admit it, that’s not what he wanted.

Strip passed the Hostile Takeover Bank crew’s box as he settled into his own. Chick and his team sounded like they were having the time of their lives behind him.

“This is my year boys,” Chick proclaimed, his team responding with various affirmations. “We’re gonna beat the old man and take that trophy home, I can feel it.”

Strip watched as Luke cast an angry glare at the team behind them. The taunting had ceased bothering Strip years ago, as it lacked any form of credibility. While the Buick had turned out to be a decent racer, violent tactics and all, he never posed much of a threat to Team Dinoco. Every year they’d managed to outrace him, and this year looked to be no different.

“Let’s get out there and show these guys how it’s done,” Strip’s crew chief said as the pace car came into view.

_One more time_ , Strip thought to himself as he pulled into the pole position and followed the pace car onto the track.

Florida International didn’t disappoint. Strip held his lead for the better part of the race until a mild crash brought out the yellow flag. The undamaged racers cruised into pit row.

“Come on, guys, let’s get him back out there in front,” Luke ordered as Strip came to a halt in front of them. “We’ve got this race in the bag.”

The crew moved with unparalleled speed and precision as they refueled their racer and refreshed his tires. Strip stayed silent and let them do their job, keeping his focus. The moment all four tires touched the pavement again, he took off, rocketing out of pit row and rejoining the field in sixth.

Several laps later, he finally passed the car in the lead. Settling into the lower groove, Strip focused on putting as much space between him and the rest of the field as he could. The speedway at Daytona was a track built for speed. If he maintained a good lead, the slower cars wouldn’t stand a chance at catching up to him.

“Twenty laps left, but watch out. That new kid’s got a run on you.”

Strip glanced up at the monitors as he crossed the finish line signaling the beginning of the hundred and eightieth lap. It was true. He could see McQueen inching closer and closer toward him, with Chick drafting right on the kid’s tail, hitching a ride into the top three.

“Hm.” Strip had no other response. That rookie had started out in the rear of the field, and to end his first race at the top? It was objectively impressive.

In the last lap, McQueen pulled up alongside Strip as they rounded the last two turns. They were close enough Strip could hear the kid’s crew chief barking orders.

“Watch it, McQueen,” the voice said. “These guys know what they’re doing. You’re not going to be able to pass high, you’ll need to – ”

The voice fell silent as Lightning switched off the radio. Despite his surprise at the utter neglect of good advice on the kid’s behalf, Strip zeroed his concentration in on the finish line ahead and strained for more speed. Slowly, he felt himself pull away as his engine strained at its limits. Somewhere in the near vicinity, he heard Chick growl out of frustration.

The three crossed the finish line in a mere instant, with the rest of the field following soon after. Strip let off the gas as the crowd erupted into a roar and the cameras all focused on him. He’d won. He felt himself smile.

“Yeah! That’s how you do it!” He heard Luke’s voice over his radio, strangely enough. As he passed in front of the pits, he saw that the pitty had seized the crew chief’s headset and held it hostage, cheering into the mouthpiece.

He took a victory lap for the fans.

As he pulled into pit row, he aimed for his ecstatic team waiting down at the end for him. However, before he got far, he passed McQueen’s team. The crew chief, an angry red pickup truck was chewing the kid out for not listening.

“You would’ve won had you listened to me!” the truck exclaimed.

“I know how to race,” McQueen retorted. “I did exactly what I wanted, no thanks to you.”

“Boy, you better watch your tone.”

Strip drove on, a little alarmed at the verbal hostility. He’d seen some stubborn, overconfident rookies in his day, but none that blatantly refused to listen to their crew chief like that. Even Hicks got along well with his. But no matter, Strip filed the scene away in his mind to come back to later. He had a trophy to collect and a team to celebrate with.

“There’s our defending champion! Get over here, man,” Roger waved his racer over as he backed off the crew chief's stand.

The pitties surrounded Strip as he approached, whooping and hollering their signature “Go go Dinoco!”

“One more for the books, hey guys?” he said as he came to a halt among them.

“Come on, let’s go get that trophy.”

The podium finish at the Florida 500 predicted the leaders for the season, according to tradition. Strip proudly took his position on the top platform and smiled for the cameras while the other two racers joined him, Lightning on the second place pedestal, and Chick on the third.

Strip glanced down at the rookie and saw a look of pure excitement. Taking second at Daytona Beach’s Florida International for a first ever professional race? The kid had every right to be so delighted. Chick, on the contrary, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He wasn’t shy about expressing his distaste for the situation. Third place wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, and many cars coveted the position, but Chick wasn’t going to settle for anything less than first.

A couple race officials emerged from the sides of the stage the podiums sat on and presented the three with their trophies. The confetti canons fired the little shreds of paper into the air, catching the flashes from the cameras as the media converged around the racers. The RSN gang shoved their way to the front of the horde and took center stage as interviewers.

“Kori Turbowitz here in Victory Lane, coming to you live!” the small teal car announced to the camera her coworker followed her around with. “We saw quite the finish today here at Florida International Speedway, starting with an impressive finish from the series’ newest racer! Lightning McQueen, how does it feel to take second in your very first race?”

“It’s been phenomenal, Kori. This is what I’ve always wanted to do – get out there and _race_ ,” McQueen answered emphatically. “Just me and track, you know? I don’t need anyone else. It’s a great start to what I plan on making an even greater career.”

Kori looked back at the camera. “There you have it, this season’s rookie, Lightning McQueen, off to a fantastic start.”

There was a brief pause as the reporter decided whom to inquire next. She glanced at Chick, but thought otherwise at his disgruntled frown. She knew from experience it was better to save the angry racers for last.

“This next question is for the King,” she turned toward the top podium. “First, great win today. You’ve had the longest career in Piston Cup history, and you’re still winning. Truly impressive. As defending champion, what’s your outlook on this season, having just won the 500?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he expressed his gratitude for the compliment before moving on to her more pressing question, steeling himself for the inevitable reaction. “Well, I guess if anythin’s to be said about today’s win, it’s a great way to start off a final season.”

A gasp arose from the reporters and the frequency of the camera flashes increased dramatically. Strip felt a wave of relief wash over him as he addressed his retirement publicly. He set his mouth in a soft smile as he looked down on the surprised crowd, now shouting questions at him.

“Weathers,” Kori assertively grabbed his attention before another interviewer could distract him, “a final season? Will you be retiring from the Piston Cup?”

“Yeah,” he answered simply, nodding. “I’ve had the best career a racer could ask for, but there’re some other things I still wanna do. I’m ready to slow down a little and spend more time with friends and family, y’know? But that bein’ said, I think I still have another season in me. I’ll race for the championship this year, but I’m done after that.”

The questions continued.

Later, back at the Dinoco tent, Tex greeted his racer with as much enthusiasm as ever when Strip presented the trophy to him.

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times – Dinoco’s lucky to have you, boy,” Tex told him as he took a closer look at the gleaming first place trophy. “Heck of a win out there today.”

“I’m lucky to have a good team,” Strip responded. “It was close, I’ll tell you that.”

“That new kid almost whooped up on you, didn’t he?” Tex asked with a grin.

“Nah,” Strip dismissed it. “He’s fast, but he’s got a lot to learn yet.”

“Impressions?”

Strip looked at his sponsor and recognized the Cadillac’s expression. Tex used the same look he always did when he was formulating some sort of plan. It was the same face he saw the first time he ever laid tire to a track.

“You wanna steal him away from that Rusteze company, don’t you?” he asked.

Tex’s grin widened. “You know me too well, King. So, what’d you think?”

“Like I said, a lot of room for improvement,” Strip said, thinking back to what he’d seen on the track. “But…”

He trailed off midsentence as he remembered his chat with Rick a few days prior.

“Strip?” Tex asked, watching his friend’s expression fall.

The racer looked up at him before gazing off into the distance. Beyond the Dinoco tent he caught a glimpse of Chick driving past the garages with his crew. He’d never gotten the chance to be interviewed on the podiums with the other two racers getting all the attention. It was clear he was still upset as they loaded up his trailer.

Strip realized that Chick hadn’t made any move to take McQueen out during the race or openly, verbally attack him afterward. This seemed to confirm that the Buick didn’t not know the rookie’s part in the war. This offered Strip slight piece of mind.

He gaze drifted even further, over to where the largest mob of energy radiated from the track. McQueen was still milling around Victory Lane, giving the reporters their fill. He was striking poses, gesturing extravagantly and behaving in the most photogenic way possible. Strip furrowed his brow slightly as he considered the kid’s behavior. McQueen was cocky and confident, but didn’t seem like he had a bad personality as a whole. He was just a youth surrounded by sudden fame.

Surrounded by fame and unknowingly overshadowed by much higher powers in play.

“Uh,” Strip looked back to Tex. “Kid needs a bit of an attitude adjustment for sure. But there’s potential. Any car that can start last and finish second has talent.”

Tex’s eyes narrowed. “Anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?”

Strip haphazardly glanced around. “There’s somethin’ I need to tell you,” he said quietly.

Tex nodded after brief hesitation. The two of them cruised around to the restricted area behind the Dinoco tent. Press members weren’t allowed back there, so there weren’t any cameras. As they entered, Lynda appeared and joined them, rubbing up on Strip’s side.

“There’s my favorite winner,” she greeted him warmly.

“Hey, Lyn,” he returned the gesture. “Where you been?”

“Oh, just hangin’ out with some of the girls. Not much,” she explained.

A brief moment of silence passed between the three of them. Lynda looked over with mild concern. A win wasn’t normally met with such lack of enthusiasm.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Come on,” Strip told her.

She followed them further into the restricted area and looked between both of them, confused. Strip took a breath and started into his explanation.

“Tex, what I said earlier wasn’t a lie,” he began. “The kid’s got potential, and he’s probably the best target if you’re lookin’ to recruit talent off the track. But he’s not who you think he is.”

He paused, expecting Tex to say something, but the oil baron sat there silently, watching him and waiting for more.

“I got a call on the way down here the other day,” he continued. “It was Rick and my sister up at the factory, givin’ out intel. They told me that GM, after all these years, finally created their so-called weapon for the war. It’s the kid. They’ve got the pictures to prove it.”

“What?” Lynda looked shocked. “The kid? He looks so harmless.”

“That’s just the thing,” Strip explained. “He _is_. For a weapon, they didn’t give him anythin’ to fight with. He’s just a racer. That’s it. He doesn’t even know what he is. Paul up at GM has this theory that if McQueen don’t know what he was built for, he can’t put himself at risk, and he’ll outlive the war.”

“And they throw him on the same track as you and Hicks?” Tex asked, shaking himself and frowning. “That’s the stupidest thing a car could do.”

“That’s what I thought,” Strip agreed. “But somethin’ else – Chrysler and GM aren’t at odds anymore. Rick said they signed some sort of alliance in an attempt to stop the fightin’. That’s how we got all this information. If it weren’t for Stephen, the war could’ve ended a long time ago.”

“Does Chick know about any of this?” Tex wondered.

“I don’t think so,” Strip answered. “Doesn’t seem like it, and I want it to stay that way. That kid over there may be conceited as all-get-out, but he deserves his shot at racin’ as much as the rest of us. He doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this.”

“We’ll keep an eye on things,” Tex promised. “As a businesscar, I probably shouldn’t say this, but as your friend, I’m gonna commit to you that I’ve got your back in this. You’ve done too much for me, I can’t sit on the sidelines if somethin’ happens.”

“Thanks,” Strip offered a halfhearted smile that soon faded.

“In the meantime, you need to focus on racin’,” Lynda reminded him gently. “Just get through this season. Do only what you need to. The rest will work itself out.”

He glanced up at her with a stressed look in his eyes.

“Then why do I feel like this isn’t gonna end well?” he whispered.


	20. Part 3, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strip gives Lightning some choice advice after the Dinoco 400, and then comes across an unlikely track-side conversation.

The season progressed quickly, with unparalleled rivalry unlike anything the circuit had seen in years. Lightning McQueen became a household name in a matter of weeks, claiming his first win soon after the Florida 500. The rookie rocketed to stardom as he annihilated the competition, pushing the rest of the racers to perform at their very best. Only a few of the veterans could hope to keep up with him.

The historical finish of the Dinoco 400 proved that. It wasn’t often there was so close a finish that the officials couldn’t definitively say who’d earned the top three places. In fact, it’d never happened before. The first two positions? Yeah, that had happened on rare occasion, but this was something to be remembered.

Strip slowly pushed his way toward the stage over in Victory Lane with Tex and Lynda on either side of him, anticipating the official results.

“Look at that, the kid thinks he’s won already,” Tex pointed out.

Strip turned his attention from his wife at his side, looked to the stage, and exhaled in mild annoyance. McQueen was striking poses and entertaining the press like he hadn’t just potentially made the biggest mistake of his career. The kid’s flashy stickers were almost as blinding as the camera flashes.

“Kid should’ve won,” Strip muttered. “There ain’t no good reason I should’ve been able to catch up with him.”

“You say that like you hope he wins,” Tex chuckled.

“Well, of our options, he’s not my last pick,” Strip said. “I’m gonna go talk to him. If ain’t nobody else gonna set him straight, I gotta try. He’s got too much talent to waste it on stupidity.”

“Alright,” Lynda said, amused. “We’ll watch from over here. Best of luck!”

“Thanks, dear.”

The reporters parted to make way for the legend as he approached the stage. Hesitating briefly as two fed up security guards escorted a couple Miatas away from Lightning’s presence, he rolled up onto the ramp to face McQueen.

“Hey there, buddy. You’re one gutsy racer,” he complimented the sparkling red racecar.

“Oh, hey Mr. the King!” Lightning greeted him.

“You got more talent in one lugnut than a lot of cars has got in their whole body,” Strip continued.

“Oh, really – ”

“But you’re stupid.”

“Excuse me?” Lightning’s face fell, offended.

“This ain’t a one man deal, kid,” Strip was as straight with him as he could be. “You need to wise up and get yourself a good crew chief and a good team. Y’ain’t gonna win unless you got good folks behind you, and you let them do their job like they should.”

Strip went on to give an example of a time he made a mistake and his crew had to make up for his lack of competence back in the day. Before he got too far into the story, he saw the rookie’s gaze drift away toward the showy Dinoco exhibit. Strip knew Lightning wanted the Dinoco sponsorship after he retired, but what Lightning didn’t know was that Dinoco wouldn’t put up with his arrogance if he treated them like he’d treated his Rusteze pit crew.

“The key to a successful career is workin’ out a good relationship between crew and racer,” Strip summarized. “If you can figure that out, you’re just gonna be okay.”

Lightning snapped his attention back to his present company and cleared his throat. “Oh, that is spectacular advice, thank you, Mr. the King.”

_Kid didn’t listen to a word I said._ Strip thought as the loud speakers came to life around them.

“…for the first time in Piston Cup history…”

The three racers were left hanging in anticipation as the announcer paused for dramatic effect. Strip and Chick both watched on as Lightning revved his engine and burst through the paper shroud ahead of them, fully expecting to be the first rookie to win the championship.

“…we have a three way tie!”

Chick burst out laughing, and Strip had to suppress his own amusement at Lightning’s mistake as they rolled forward through the ripped parchment.

An hour or so later, Team Dinoco packed up as the stadium cleared out. With all the attention resulting from the finish, it had taken Strip nearly all of that time to find his way back to his sponsor. While the other racers headed out to enjoy some time off, the season wasn’t quite over yet.

“There he is!” Lynda saw him first and drove over to him.

“Looks like you ain’t done yet, boy!” Tex exclaimed as his racer finally broke free from the crowd.

Strip smiled as his longtime friend came over to slap him on the fender in congratulations. Together, the trio returned to the Dinoco area for a bit of peace as the employees worked on disassembling the exhibit stage.

“I guess one more ain’t gonna hurt anything,” Strip said with a shrug. “Three cars on one track, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“They’re gonna give you the pole position right out of the gate in L.A.,” Lynda told him. “As a thank you for all you’ve done for the sport.”

“Hmm,” he wasn’t convinced. “Sounds more like an insult to my age.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Tex scolded. “It’s a wide open track. You could win even if they started you in the back.”

The pit crew passed them, pushing the racks of tires and empty gas cans toward the garages, excitedly chattering among themselves. They let out a collective cheer as they saw their racer and started throwing their enthusiasm his way.

“California, here we come!”

“You know what’s better than seven Piston Cups? Eight!”

“Go, go Dinoco!”

“Let’s go make history – again!”

Strip laughed a little as he watched them go. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind he’d miss this.

“Crazy, ain’t they?” Lynda commented.

He looked to her, nodding in agreement. His gaze fell and traced the chrome trim down her side. As much as he’d miss the racing scene, he knew he had other things to look forward to. They wouldn’t have to be on the road for weeks at a time, never having a weekend off. They wouldn’t be constantly hounded by the press any more. There wouldn’t be any more long nights on the interstates sleeping in separate trailers. As much as he loved racing, he loved her more, and couldn’t wait to spend the time with her she’d always deserved.

She caught him looking at her and shied away playfully, snapping him out of his train of thought.

“What do you say we hit the road and spend a couple days at home before headin’ out west?” she asked.

“Tex?” Strip looked to his sponsor.

“You don’t have to ask my permission, King,” Tex reminded him with a gentle chuckle. “Just be out there by Thursday or Friday to get a couple practice laps in. I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

The three split ways and Strip headed back to his trailer, parked near the garages. As he rounded the end of the long concrete building that housed the bays, he heard quiet chatter. One of the voices was Chick. The other sent a chill through him.

He stopped before coming into view and listened. His trailer was mere yards away, but as usual, it had been parked next to Hicks’. As bad as he wanted to go home, not interrupting the conversation around the corner was suddenly more important.

“You never come to a single race,” Chick growled. “You never once reached out to me after I left. Now I’m on the verge of making history, and you track me down?”

“Shut your ugly mouth and listen, boy,” the eerie, dry voice of an older Ford Business Coupe hissed in return. “You and I both know this racing thing hasn’t gone the way you thought it would. I told you I’m not gonna settle for second best, in anything! And now it seems to me like you’ve slipped back to third. I’ve given you time to better yourself, and either you haven’t taken the opportunity, or it’s impossible. You signed a contract. You are mine to do with as I please.”

“I’m not your puppet,” Hicks snapped back. “I told you from the start, all I wanted was the glory – something to be remembered for. You promised me we’d win, and what happened? I fight one battle and now I’ve got a bent frame you either can’t fix or you refuse to.”

“You’re straight enough to race, that’s all that should matter to you,” Stephen tossed Chick’s concern aside. “I should have ripped you off this track years ago, but I didn’t. But now something’s come up and I’m giving you one last chance to redeem yourself.”

“And what makes you think I’m gonna do anything for you?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

They both fell silent for several long seconds. Strip cautiously looked around and leaned closer to the wall to listen, fighting the urge to turn around and vacate the premise. After an uncomfortable while, Stephen spoke once more.

“I have reason to believe that new rookie that’s been showing you up is GM’s tool,” he said.

Chick laughed. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am, trust me on this,” Stephen replied with conviction. “Ol’ Paul thought putting his masterpiece in the public eye was gonna keep me from going after him? Ha! No, it’s played into our favor. McQueen has no defenses. You take him out and GM’s done for.”

“GM was never your problem,” Chick pointed out. “Why should I go out of my way to pick a pawn off your chessboard?”

“Because you can make it look like an accident,” Stephen began to sound excited. “You’ve got that race next weekend? Use that so-called talent of yours to wreck him. You can kill him and make it look like an accident! Occupational hazard, right? And the best part? Chrysler’s done gone and signed an alliance with GM. Bunch of wusses don’t wanna finish what we started. You kill McQueen and it’ll bring those last two flying monsters of theirs out of hiding. We then finish them, and we’re done. You go free.”

“Hmm,” Chick mulled it over for a bit.

“If you need further convincing, it’ll increase your chances at winning,” Stephen offered, knowing his volunteer warrior too well.

Chick didn’t say anything, and without watching the interaction, Strip couldn’t tell if the Buick was convinced or not. He heard him back into his trailer. Stephen offered one last threat, if one could call it that, as Chick closed the ramp.

“I’m giving you until after the race to get back in the game. If you haven’t done anything by then, I’ll do what I have to.”

The ramp closed silently. Strip listened as the Ford’s rough, loud engine puttered away in the opposite direction. He sat silent and still for a moment as a diesel engine fired up and pulled away. As Chick’s hauler pulled out into view, he slowly pulled around the corner to back into his own.

“There you are,” Gray greeted him. “Thought you got lost. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Strip said, forcing himself to sound relaxed. “Let’s go.”

He’d never been so thankful to live so close to the Motor Speedway of the South. A short thirty minutes later, Gray backed the trailer in next to Strip’s house.

“When do you want me to come pick you up?” the semi asked as Strip exited the confined space as quickly as he could manage.

“Uh,” he thought about it. “When would we have to leave to get there Thursday sometime?”

Gray did some quick math. “If I’m rested up, we could probably leave early Wednesday morning and drive straight through. Might need to take a quick nap somewhere along the way, though. It’s almost forty hours away.”

“We can leave earlier,” Strip told him. “That’s a long way. I don’t want you keelin’ over on the interstate halfway there.”

“Tuesday night?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Strip took a moment waited until Gray was well out of sight, composing himself, before entering his house. Lynda greeted him immediately.

“I beat you here by fifteen minutes,” she said. “That never happens.”

He shut the door behind him and looked around as if he expected someone else to be with them in their own house. His mind was still running rampant from his encounter.

Lynda noticed and immediately dropped the lightheartedness in her tone. “I’ve seen that look before. What’s wrong?”

“I need to call my sister.” Strip made a beeline for the phone.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Strip,” Lynda said, concerned. “Take a minute and calm down. Tell me what happened.”

He stopped as he reached the phone and took a breath, turning to look at her. She could see the fear in his eyes. He was getting better all the time about disguising how he felt, but she knew better. She could always see it.

“Stephen was at the race,” he said. “He was talkin’ to Chick by the trailers when I left. They know about McQueen.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Are they goin’ after him?”

Strip nodded and replayed the conversation in his mind. “That, and they wanna use him to get to us.”

Lynda bit her lip, worried, but she understood. “Call Izzy. Get her down here now.”


	21. Part 3, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Cars - from a different perspective.

“What do you mean he’s missing?!”

“What do you think I mean? It’s all that’s been on the news all mornin’.”

Strip drove over and flipped the television on again to prove his point. The news channels were absolutely eating the story up.

Izzy stopped pacing the length of her brother’s living room and turned to stare at the flat screen. Her eyes widened as the news anchors reiterated time and time again that no one had a clue where the rookie had gone.

“How do you lose track of a racer?” she asked. “Especially one that high profile?”

The Daytona had been staying at the Weathers residence for a few days, trying to make sense of the situation Strip encountered at the 400, but during that time they’d paid little attention to the outside world. Izzy had gone out for a morning drive a few hours earlier, and in her absence, Strip absentmindedly flipped the television on for the first time in a couple days. What followed was near mayhem.

“We gotta go look for him.” Izzy rambled. “We can’t just sit here and speculate and wait for something to happen, we need to move and –”

“Iz, stop,” Strip cut her off sternly. “Now is not the time to panic.”

“Now is the perfect time to panic!” Izzy squeaked. “What about this doesn’t say panic to you?!”

Strip glanced past his sister into the kitchen and made brief eye contact with Lynda. She was idly preoccupying herself while he dealt with Izzy’s panic attack. He couldn’t quite tell if the worry in her expression was directed toward the situation in question or the fact that he had to put up with Izzy’s obduracy. Maybe it was a little of both.

“We’re supposed to be protecting this kid and he just _disappears_ ,” Izzy reemphasized. “And like two days after you find out he’s in the line of fire! He’s probably lying dead in a ditch outside of St. Louis, for all we know.”

“That’s way too far north.”

“Not my point, Strip!” Izzy snapped, her raspy voice louder than ever. “How can you sit there so calmly?”

“Izzy, just stop. Stop for one second,” he ordered her, scowling. “Don’t raise your voice at me. You just need to calm down and listen. Find somethin’ and focus on it. Try to relax.”

Izzy glowered at him, but kept her mouth shut. Strip watched her and waited until her rate of breathing slowed. Ever since their last battle together, she’d gained a tendency to overreact to little things. This, however, was no little thing, and the sudden news opened up a multitude of old wounds she’d been suppressing.

“Right, so here are the facts,” Strip began in a calm, even tone. “One, the kid’s gone missin’. Two, Ford’s out to get him, and Hicks has a deadline he has to meet. Three, McQueen had a solid hour’s head start, and it looks like that hauler didn’t stop until he got to the track. Four, Chick didn’t show up in L.A. until today. There’s no way the two could have crossed paths. Call me crazy, but I’m not so sure his disappearance is related.”

“Okay,” Izzy said quietly, never breaking eye contact. “But what are the chances? What if it is related? What if Stephen set something else up?”

“The timing still doesn’t make sense,” Strip explained. “There’s no way a car of that age and model could catch up in time. And again, it didn’t sound like he’s gonna intervene directly in anythin’ until after the race.”

“What if there’s something we don’t know about?” she asked. “We could be caught unaware.”

“Well, if that’s the case, what are we gonna do about it?” he asked in return. “We can’t just go flyin’ blind into this, Iz. There’s over twenty-five hundred miles between here and the west coast. Tryin’ to find the kid in that much unknown’s worse than findin’ a needle in a haystack. We don’t stand a chance if we try that.”

Izzy’s expression softened into one of pure worry more than anger. Her gaze fell as she considered his words.

“Tell me, Strip,” she muttered, “what are we supposed to do? I can’t just sit here.”

“Hate to crash the party,” Lynda hesitantly entered the room, not wanting to overstep her boundaries, “but I should probably remind you the haulers are gonna be here in a couple hours to take us to Cali.”

“Mm, right,” Strip remembered, feeling his stress levels rise. “It’s gonna take us nearly two days to get there.”

Izzy sighed in quiet frustration. “Okay, okay. In terms of things we can do, lemme think. I forgot about the time constraints.”

“Tell you what, we’ll get to L.A. as fast as the semis can take us. I’ll keep a watch on things from there, see if I notice anythin’ suspicious. I’ll radio you if I find somethin’,” Strip told her. “In the meantime, you might be able to find somethin’ up in Detroit. Get Rick to help you. Tell him what we know.”

Izzy nodded, but her expression was still worried. “I don’t like being that far away from you. If something happens in California, and I’m a five hour flight away, I won’t be able to – ”

“I can take care of myself. I think you forget that sometimes.”

She looked up at him and for a split second, she didn’t see the wise, seasoned racer he’d become. She saw the wounded flier crashing onto the training grounds, trailing smoke and leaking fluids on the brink of unconsciousness. She saw a mangled body being lifted out from underneath tons of crumbled concrete and steel. However, in the next second, she saw that same young face that used to obsess over video reels that were decades old. The same car that could best her at her own games and make her laugh when no one else could.

“Okay,” she choked out, finding herself on the brink of tears. “Just touch base every so often, alright?”

Strip nodded and watched her hurriedly make a break for the door. Lynda drove over to join him as the sound of Izzy’s engine faded in the distance.

“Is she gonna be okay?” she asked.

“I dunno, Lyn,” he sighed in defeat. “But somethin’ tells me we’re about to find out.”

* * *

 The entire racing community seemed to sigh with relief the night they found McQueen. The kid’s sponsors, his fans - nearly everyone that cared about him had given up hope, but the night before the race, someone called in and tipped RSN to his location. Within hours, they were live broadcasting the rookie’s trip to California on every channel imaginable.

“Looks like he had a good time, really,” Tex commented as Team Dinoco gathered around a television inside the sponsor’s tent. “I know where I’ll be gettin’ my next coat of paint.”

“Reckon he’ll make it in time?” one of the pitties asked. “’Cause if not, we’ve got this race in the bag.”

“They ain’t gonna start the race without him,” Tex said. “He’s the only real competition we’ve got. It’d be borin’ otherwise.”

Tex’s remark sparked a wave of snickers through the pit crew. Strip felt the corner of his mouth tug into half a smile as he looked up at the screen. He’d never in recent memory felt so relieved. He’d spent nearly every moment since arriving at the track subtly observing and investigating the goings-on around him, but all that effort had been fruitless. Needless to say, after several days, Izzy’s efforts had come up dry as well.

“I’m glad he’s okay,” Lynda said in a voice so quiet only Strip could hear. “I was startin’ to think the worst, y’know.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I think we all were.”

“What are the chances?” she asked even quieter. “It really was just a coincidence.”

He looked at her and shrugged.

“Well, King, I hope you got your practice laps in,” Tex joked. “You’re gonna need ‘em.”

“Who’s side are you on, man?” Strip asked.

“Come on, I’m jokin’,” Tex assured him. “I know you’ll win. You always do.”

* * *

The green flag dropped. Strip accelerated toward the wide-open track before him, completely focused for the first time all week. It was a beautiful day for a race. The sky was clear and sunny, but not too warm. Over time, the veteran had found that the arid climate and sea-level altitude of the west coast lent itself well to his lack of direct fuel injection. It was at races like these where he thrived, and that day he was milking his engine for every last bit of power he had.

Only a few turns into the race, he heard the unmistakable sound of tires squealing across asphalt, going quiet as they careened into the infield. Confused, he glanced back and saw McQueen spun out in the grass. Chick hadn’t even touched him. What had happened?

“Kid just spun out on his own,” Roger notified him as though he’d read his racer’s mind. “Looks good for you today. Stay focused, King.”

Behind him, Strip heard Chick comment to his own crew. He wondered how well the Buick would like losing to “the old man” one last time. The thought of it spurred him onward.

Lap after uneventful lap passed, and as Lightning somehow seemed to find the inspiration to make up his lost lap, Strip settled into a slower pace, opting for endurance over speed. Chick didn’t try to pass him, and for a while, they even cruised around the track side by side. Two hundred laps between three cars didn’t warrant unneeded action until the end.

“McQueen’s behind you now. Time to step it up. Ten laps to go.”

Strip heeded his crew chief’s advice and focused on building his lead. He’d held it this long, he knew he could keep it.

 _Fwubfwubfwubfwubfwub._ The distinctive pattern of a flat tire followed a brief clang of metal on metal.

“Caution’s out. Bet you can’t guess what happened there.”

Strip looked to pit row to acknowledge his advisor, but before he ever laid eyes on his own team, had to do a double take.

_Is that – is that The Fabulous Hudson Hornet? No. I’m goin’ crazy. But – it is. It is!_

A flash of yellow appeared in the middle of the track in front of him. He slammed on his brakes, tires squealing, to avoid ramming into the pace car at an unreasonable speed. As they paced around the track, Strip looked up to the flat screens several times. He couldn’t believe it. The same car that he’d idolized for as long as he could remember was parked atop McQueen’s pit stand.

_Had I found the Hudson Hornet out in the middle of nowhere, I’d probably go missin’ for a week, too._

After what was quite possibly the quickest pit stop ever recorded in Piston Cup history, McQueen didn’t lose hardly any ground as he restarted right behind the leaders. Somehow, this was still anyone’s race to win.

The white flag dropped as the racers rounded turn four in the penultimate lap of the race. The crowd was hopelessly restless in anticipation, their cheers and screams amalgamating in a roar across the track. One way or another, this was the end. Strip crossed that finish line with an odd sense of contented accomplishment, but undeterred determination.

Almost immediately, he heard Lightning gaining on him, the noteworthy sound of an engine being pushed to the limits. Strip focused solely on the track in front of him. Less than a minute separated him from a relaxing drive into retirement. He had to make the most of it.

Turn one greeted them with Hick’s pent up aggression. Lightning passed him to the inside, hoping to overtake them both by holding to the lower groove, as the middle seemed to be favored by the two older racers. Chick saw his shot at glory fade even further out of reach as he fell into third. Rage and panic worked well to his advantage, and he reacted at their will. He poured on the speed and rammed the rookie as hard as he could, knocking Lightning off the track and onto the infield below.

Strip caught a glimpse of red behind him and to the left, raking through the grass at dangerously high speeds. However, before he could react in any way, Chick slammed into him as well in a miscalculated rebound from his impact with McQueen. Strip felt himself being pulled toward the outside wall as he instinctively balanced the fine line between over- and under-correcting, all while maintaining as much momentum as he could. Behind him, Chick struggled to do the same.

Turn two catered to their advantage. Despite futile attempts to keep their speed up, Strip and Chick both regained their grip in the lower grove. As they came out of the turn, Strip glanced down at the infield. What he saw amazed him.

Lightning never slowed down as he slid through the grass. Instead, he deliberately deployed a dirt-racing tactic made famous by the Fabulous Hudson Hornet. The rookie, in all his inexperience, drifted across the grass and kept himself pointed in the right direction. For a split second, Strip flashed back to all those days he’d spent watching the legend’s racing videos, alone in his room. Drifting was the one racing technique he thought he’d never get to apply on the superspeedways, and this kid had figured it out almost immediately.

McQueen skated back up onto the asphalt several yards ahead of his competitors. Still in awe at what he’d witnessed, Strip felt himself grin.

_Go on, kid. You deserve it._

They barreled down the straightaway toward turn three as McQueen broadened his lead. With only two turns left, the winner was apparent. The fans loved it, even those that weren’t exclusively rooting for the rookie. That day was going down in the history books with the kid at the center of it all.

Strip’s excitement at the inexorable win faltered as he noticed Chick trying once again to force his way past. He clenched his teeth and frowned, moving up the track to block his opponent. Chick swung low, but Strip anticipated it. Up, block, down, block. Chick growled in frustration.

“I am not coming in behind you again, old man!”

The Buick pushed Strip’s rear end out from under him with uncalled for rage, and sent him into a spin off the track. His tires left the asphalt before he ever came near the grass of the infield. He froze, caught in a crippling state of panic.

He wasn’t at the Los Angeles International Speedway anymore. It wasn’t a bright, sunny day, and he wasn’t surrounded by friends, family, and fans. He was spiraling out of control through the dark, smoky air toward a crumbling building while fires burned in the distance and the cries of the dying swirled around him. He thought he heard his sister scream – or was it Lynda? He couldn’t tell. A picture flashed before his eyes of a scared Mustang. It was Jason slowly dying as the building fell to seal his fate. No, wait. That was Jake rushing into the medical clinic to check on his father. Which was it?

The Piston Cup legend hit the ground nose first at no less than a hundred and ninety miles an hour, jarring him from his waking nightmare. The impact bent his frame, and his body went numb as he flipped up into the air a second time, rolling. His spoiler ripped itself from his right rear fender. A cooling hose leading from his radiator came unfastened. His body crumpled more and more with every roll. The surface deep mechanisms that controlled his latent, outdated transformative processes pulled away from the individual panels. Something else snapped. He wasn’t sure what.

An eternity later, perhaps five or six seconds, he came to a rest in the dirt. For a moment, there was nothing. He couldn’t hear anything, save two engines – no, one engine and a set of squalling tires on the track. He struggled to open his eyes as feeling returned to him, attempting to look at the track beyond his smoking hood. For several seconds, the pain blinded him. The combination of crumpled panels and shattered parts surrounding a overheating engine made him long for unconsciousness. He tried to breathe, hoping the cool air would help. It just made the pain worse.

Through the silence, someone was celebrating that didn’t sound like Lightning at all. The crowd remained silent. In all his years of racing, he’d never heard silence from the fans. Strip wondered if his hearing had failed. He sucked in another painful breath and again tried to look toward the track.

McQueen was just sitting there, feet away from the finish line, idling. Chick was doing donuts in the grass several hundred yards away. It didn’t make any sense. Strip hazily watched as the rookie kicked himself into reverse and began backing toward him.

“What’re you doin’, kid?” It hurt to talk, but Strip didn’t understand. Why would anyone stop before the finish line?

“I think the King should finish his last race.”

Lightning moved behind him to carefully push him up out of the grass toward the track. Strip tried not to protest, but his body thought otherwise. He groaned a little as his wheels rolled forward on their bent axles. His crippled wobble became more apparent as McQueen pushed him onto the asphalt.

“You just gave up the Piston Cup, you know that?” he asked, looking up at the thousands upon thousands of fans watching them in silence. Why would someone about to make history willingly choose not to do so?

“You know, a grumpy old racecar I know once told me something,” the rookie answered. “It’s just an empty cup.”

Strip looked back at the rookie briefly, sudden clarity dawning on him. In pit row, he saw the Hudson Hornet watching them. He knew about how the legend never finished his last race, how that had always seemed so unfair. All that injustice and somehow, in a matter of a few short days, that very same car had turned this rookie’s attitude completely around. That arrogant young hotrod had given up his shot at being immortalized in the history books just so he could prevent what happened to his mentor from happening to someone else.

Strip remained silent as they crossed the finish line together, a new conviction filling him as the crowd went wild, unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

Lightning McQueen must be protected at all costs.

It was personal now.


	22. Part 3, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the factory - but this time, for repairs.

“What was that you said? Hm? Something about ‘taking care of yourself’?”

“Do I look like I’m in the mood for this right now?”

“You look terrible.”

The pain medications had worn off several hours prior. In fact, they had started wearing off even before Rotor transported him to the Los Angeles airport, nearly six hours before they touched down in Michigan. Strip winced as two forklifts gingerly picked him up and carried him off the unmarked corporate jet.

Lynda followed them close, quietly asking the assistants carrying her husband to be careful. She’d seen him in pain before, but never like this. Despite hearing his reservations about her joining him on the way to the factory, she insisted on accompanying him. After a wreck like that she wasn’t about to let him out of her sight, especially en route to a place like this.

As the forklifts rested him on the back of a flatbed wrecker to be hauled inside, Lynda looked around and for the first time consciously acknowledged where she was. The Chrysler headquarters were so much larger than she ever imagined. Their jet had landed in a huge courtyard several times bigger than any racetrack she’d ever been to. All around them, buildings loomed as though their only goal was to block out the sun. She felt small and insignificant.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” Izzy asked her, noticing her hesitation.

“It’s just…” Lynda struggled to find the right word. “Imposin’, I guess. Kinda weird to think we all came from here.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour later,” Izzy promised, turning to follow the wrecker inside.

Lynda followed, unsure if she really wanted to know what conspired in the depths of this cradle of life.

In a repair bay, Rick’s assistants unloaded Strip from the flatbed and placed him on the repair machine’s track as the Power Wagon watched nearby. Izzy and Lynda stayed at the far end of the room until the aides left them in peace with the CEO and the crippled racer.

“Gracious, boy. The last time you looked like this we’d just pulled you out from under a building,” Rick commented as he neared Strip.

“Just knock me out already, will you?” Strip tried to sound as terse as possible. In all reality, he sounded pathetic.

“Izzy, knock the edge off for him,” Rick ordered.

The Daytona nodded once and drove over to a nearby shelf full of bottles. Carefully, she mixed a few of the compounds and filled a blunt-nosed syringe with the liquid. Strip eyed her suspiciously as she brought it over.

“You know, this might be the first time I’ve ever been hesitant to trust you,” he said to her.

Izzy rolled her eyes. “Do I have to physically show you my doctorate? ‘Cause if I do, it’s gonna take me another twenty minutes to go get it and bring it back to you. I’m qualified, I promise.”

Strip looked at Lynda questioningly. She knew he didn’t like taking medication in general, but she wasn’t about to defend his case here.

“Don’t look at me. I trust her.”

“See?” Izzy gestured toward the waiting station wagon. “Now are you gonna drink this, or am I gonna have to pry that hood off and force it into you?”

Why she even asked the question in the first place was anyone’s guess. She shoved the syringe in his mouth without a word of warning and dosed him. Strip begrudgingly submitted in defeat, flinching as he swallowed. It shouldn’t hurt to swallow, but it did.

“Give it a couple minutes,” Izzy said in a softer tone. “You won’t feel a thing.”

“In the meantime, a few things you should know,” Rick announced as he took center stage. “It’s a new millennium, and your equipment from the seventies isn’t gonna cut it anymore. You’re too vulnerable. As you are, or in flight mode for that matter, you could be taken out with a single shot. It’s happened before, and we’re in no position to risk that now. We’ve done a lot of research and improved the paneling materials and defense systems. Izzy? Show him.”

Strip looked to his sister as she drove into the middle of the floor and converted to flight mode. The rough sliding of metal over metal was now nearly quiet, nothing more than a hum and smooth whirring. The distinct, jagged mechanical motions that once plagued the transformation had been smoothed into something that was borderline graceful. Finally, her body didn’t look like a hodge podge of ill-fitted geometric shapes anymore. Instead, she retained all the graceful curves of her model while extending them to her flight mechanisms. The only thing that remained the same was the flat black-painted exterior that disguised their identities.

“Hm.” Strip couldn’t deny he was impressed.

“Bulletproof, too.” Izzy paraded herself in front of him.

“To an extent, anyway,” Rick admitted. “That round that took you down all those years ago wouldn’t so much as scratch this stuff.”

Strip looked at Rick as he became increasingly coherent at the absence of overwhelming pain. “This is it, ain’t it? This is the end all be all.”

Rick’s gaze fell to the floor as he nodded. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time there’s no other option. If we lose, GM’s toast and Ford’s undoubtedly going to win. If GM falls first, Ford will come after us, and eventually one of us will lose. There’s so few of you left. Someone has to die. There’s no getting around it. You know that.”

Strip sighed as the room and everything in it became lucid around him. It was a familiar feeling, one that signaled only a few minutes before unconsciousness. Izzy had mixed those drugs up quite effectively.

“I know.”

“That’s why I’m asking your permission to do this,” Rick said in a more understanding manner. “I’m going to do everything within my power to help, but this is your choice. Will you let me install this new equipment?”

Strip looked up at him. “You’ve never given me a choice before. Why now?”

“I saw what happened today. I doubt you can sit there and tell me you don’t care what happens next. This is your fight, whether you like it or not. You get to choose how you want to fight it.”

He gazed down at his crinkled hood, still covered in dirt like the rest of him. Reality began to blur with memory, not in the form of sudden flashback, but in vivid recollection. He felt himself being pushed across the finish line.

_It’s just an empty cup._

“Do it.”

Rick nodded once and abruptly drove to the nearby control panel. With a flip of a switch and a series of commands, the machine around Strip whirred to life.

“See you in a couple days.”

Those were last words he heard before sinking into peaceful oblivion.

* * *

 

“Is it really only gonna take that long to fix him?” Lynda asked.

“Yeah, hopefully,” Izzy answered. “The machines do most of the work. Rick’ll stand by to do the manual bits. He’s good at it. He’s had a lot of practice.”

The two of them drove slowly through a corridor, bustling with workers. Izzy was making the most of her time with her sister-in-law, trying to keep her occupied while shedding a little light on Strip’s unspoken past. This leg of the tour took them through the adoption center, where nurses rushed around, tending to all the newly manufactured.

“I hope it all goes okay,” Lynda muttered, more to herself than to Izzy.

Izzy glanced over. Lynda wasn’t even trying to hide her concern, and no one could blame her. Having to watch the love of her life wreck that badly and then be told there’s still a war to fight? Izzy thought she had it bad. What she felt likely didn’t hold a flame in comparison.

“Try not to stress yourself out too much,” Izzy advised. “He’ll be fine. He’s seen worse.”

Lynda shuddered. How much worse could it have been? Worse than a rollover wreck at high speed?

“Anyway, over here’s where they keep them all,” Izzy returned to her tour guide speech, gesturing through a large windowpane into another room. “These are the newest. There’s a separate room for each age group, up to six months or so. Most are adopted by then.”

“Aww,” Lynda felt herself get all warm.

There were rows of them, each no more than a few days old and completely helpless. They looked through the window at the adult cars. A couple of them smiled. Lynda felt as though she might cry. The cuteness was simply too much for her overwhelmed mind to bear.

“Some days, I come down here to remind myself why I do what I do,” Izzy whispered.

Lynda nodded and blinked back a few tears. How could anyone propose a fight over anything this innocent? These weren’t just machines. These were naïve, adoring, living things that needed love.

She thought back to a few times she’d discussed parenthood with Strip. He’d always told her he wouldn’t feel right about it until the war was over. After a bit of prying and a small argument, he’d told her about that Mustang he’d encountered. He told her how he’d watched it die, and how some part of him still felt at fault for it. That had been enough of an argument to convince her to wait, but this? He hadn’t told her about this. She suddenly understood what he’d meant by still having work to do before they really, truly settled down. He wouldn’t ever be able to abandon something like this completely.

“You ever want one?” Lynda asked, finding her voice.

Izzy thought for a moment and nodded. “One day, after the fighting’s done.”

Lynda smiled. “That’s what Strip always says. I’m holding him to it.”

“Great minds, huh?” Izzy found herself smirking at the thought of her brother being overrun with youngsters. “The racecars always tend to have the most trouble finding homes. I want one of those, I think.”

“I like the Magnums, like that one over there,” Lynda pointed out. “It would look more like me, but I’d want one with the Hemi so it would act more like him. It’d drive him crazy.”

“See, now we _have_ to win this thing, because I have to see that,” Izzy laughed.

They both got a good giggle out of that, but ultimately fell silent again at the subtle mention of the war. They pried themselves away from the window and continued down the hall. The further they went, the more deserted the corridors became until there was no one around but them. Lynda eventually broke the silence.

“When you said earlier that he’d been through worse, what did you mean by that?”

Izzy bit her lip. She’d assumed the questions would start rolling out eventually. Strip wasn’t much for talking in general, let alone about something he purposely avoided.

“I want to show you something.”

Izzy led Lynda down a series of hallways. They drove for nearly fifteen minutes before reaching their destination outside. There was a small knoll with a monument fixed atop it next to a newer building. Two flags waved in the gentle breeze on a flagpole above them – the American flag and one other Lynda didn’t recognize. It was white with a black pentastar on it, and it looked dirty.

Izzy drove up a well-kept brick path to the face of the monument, leaving room for Lynda to park beside her. The polished stone face was ornately engraved with a grid of twelve names and a memorial statement.

_For those that fell protecting those that could not protect themselves. Your sacrifice will be remembered._

_November 24 th, 1986_

“That night, building one fell before we ever got in the air,” Izzy narrated as Lynda looked over the monument. “That building there isn’t the original. Rick took the broken marquee off the old building and turned it into a mausoleum for all these guys. It’s buried underneath us.

“Anyway, it didn’t take long before we lost one, two, and then five. We were dropping out of the air like flies. A couple of them caught fire and burned out before they ever hit the ground. One caught a bullet in his weapon’s compartment and detonated midair. The rest of them crashed.

“I remember when Strip got hit. It was shrapnel from someone else falling apart next to him. I don’t think he saw it coming. Ripped half his tail fin off and busted his wing flap controls. I saw it much too clearly. He couldn’t do anything to help himself, but he was smart about it. He dropped every weapon he had but his machine guns before he crashed, about four hundred yards in that direction over there.”

Lynda followed Izzy’s gesture toward an empty lot. The foundation of whatever had been there remained.

“I thought he’d be safe over there but the building started to crumble. He wasn’t the first thing that had hit it, and he wasn’t the last. I got caught up trying to save one of my sisters, getting her out of the line of fire, but by the time she’d taken a hit and fallen, and I’d disposed of the last Mustang – ”

Izzy paused and took a breath, feeling the emotions come rushing back. She hadn’t cried over that night in years. She thought she’d gotten past it, but then again she never openly talked about it. Lynda waited patiently for her to continue. She knew how the story ended, but she wanted to hear it from a different perspective.

“ – the building was nothing but a pile of concrete. I knew he was somewhere under there, but I couldn’t see him. I gave the order for everyone else to go chase that Buick down and kill him, but no one responded. I turned around and I was alone. For the first time I could remember, I didn’t know what to do.”

Lynda looked at her company sympathetically. The tears in Izzy’s eyes were every bit as real as her own. The Daytona took a few more ragged breaths and closed her eyes to gain her composure before continuing. Lynda noticed it was the same technique Strip used to calm himself down when he was angry or upset.

“Several hours later they dug him out of there. What Rick said a few hours ago when he commented on how bad Strip looked? That might as well have been a compliment. He was in pieces. Wings, gone. Jets, gone. If I’m being honest with you, I almost threw up when I saw him. Everything behind his doors was just _gone_. Crushed to a point they couldn’t do anything to save it. He was so lucky though. A crossbeam stopped anything from crushing the front half. That’s what saved him. Rick did some magic and in less than a week he was back to normal, more or less.”

Izzy looked over to find Lynda frowning and looking twice as upset as she had before. Maybe it was best that she hadn’t known the details of that night. Maybe, but Izzy felt relieved. Twenty years of pent up horrors had taken a toll on her. It felt good to share.

“He’s gonna kill me for telling you all this,” she said with half a smile. “Lynda, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Lynda assured her. “I’m glad you told me. I can tell you needed to. It helps me understand your relationship with him. I knew you were close, but I guess I was a little naïve to what you all had been through. But there’s still one thing I don’t understand – why’d he fight to start with? He told me he wouldn’t.”

Izzy pointed to a name on the monument, Stacey Johannes. When Lynda didn’t give any inclination she understood, Izzy explained.

“That was his mother,” she said quietly.

“What? He told me you were the only family he had.”

“Well, that’s not necessarily a lie. I’m all that’s left. Stacey was Rick’s wife, and before the war, they adopted him. Then they made the mistake of introducing him to me and we got attached. Rather than split us up, they gave him up to be like us and turned him into a flier. Stupid, stupid decision. They never told him, and I didn’t have the heart to do it. Rick ended up telling him about it right before the attack that night, said he felt like Strip needed to know, but that first missile that hit building one killed her before he got the chance to see her. He was angry. That’s why he fought.”

“I feel so guilty for being upset with him,” Lynda murmured. “Upset about him fighting, I mean. I can’t blame him for that. He had flashbacks and nightmares for months after he got back. I knew it had been bad, but… I had no idea.”

“That’s all?” Izzy asked, astonished. “Wow. He’s more resilient than I am, then. To this day I’ll still get triggered and find myself experiencing that night all over again. I can’t shake it.”

“I don’t reckon anyone can go through that and come out the same.”

“Yeah,” Izzy sighed, looked over the names on the memorial in front of her for the thousandth time. “But anyway. Now you know.”

“Thank you for sharin’ that. Really. I appreciate it.”

Izzy smiled softly and backed away. “Now how about we go see something less depressing?”

* * *

 

The repair bay rested in eerie silence as they entered. Strip sat motionless, eyes closed, on the lift in the midst of the reparation machine.

“He looks…” Lynda’s voice trailed off in amazement. “He’s perfect. Like new again.”

“Should be,” Rick grunted. “I haven’t slept in three days.”

Lynda drove closer to look him over. Her husband looked immaculate from the bodywork down to the placement of his sponsor stickers. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him without a scratch of some sort. His career had him in the shop at least once a month.

“When’s the anesthesia gonna wear off?” Izzy asked. “Looks like he’s taking a nap to me.”

“Any time now,” Rick answered. “I figured he’d be awake by now.”

“Sometimes you just gotta smack him real hard,” Lynda said with a slight laugh. “He’ll sleep forever on his own.”

“I – ”

Izzy gave Rick a glare, cutting him off before he could say anything. He watched on in exaggerated agitation that stemmed from unhealthy amounts of caffeine. He’d worked so hard on getting that Dinoco livery flawless. He’d rather fight someone than watch his hard work be scratched.

Lynda glanced back at the jittery truck and saw him watching her every move. She couldn’t blame him for acting paranoid. The work he’d been able to do in such a short amount of time was unbelievable.

“Hey,” she said softly, placing a gentle kiss on Strip’s lips. “Can you hear me?”

He moved so slightly she wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not. She lightly nudged him in the fender and kept talking.

“You can wake up now. They did a real good job fixin’ you up,” she told him, waiting for any response at all. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look this good since our weddin’.”

She carried on quietly for a few minutes until he cracked his eyes open. His gaze drifted aimlessly around the room in a dazed fashion until it fell on her. She held his gaze as he found his bearings again.

“You feelin’ okay?” she asked, giving him another light kiss.

He relaxed at her touch and took a breath. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

She laughed a little. “Drugs haven’t completely wore off, have they?”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from lack of use.

His sense of awareness returned quickly. He found his recent memories still intact and momentarily turned his attention to himself. He wiggled around a little, feeling for anything that seemed out of place. He started his engine and let it idle. It was new, but every bit as smooth as the old one had ever been.

“I saved what I could, but you’re pretty much brand-spankin’ new from top to bottom now,” Rick told him, driving forward. “Plus some.”

Izzy rolled forward as well, anticipating his reaction. “Well?”

“You really outdid yourself this time, Rick,” Strip admitted honestly. “I guess I owe you thanks.”

Rick nodded once, proud of his work, but unwilling to accept more gratitude than necessary. “Least I could do, boy. Just try and keep yourself together from now on.”

Strip rolled off the lift and into the open. It felt good to move under his own power once again, something he knew he took for granted.

“Come on, let me see the new wings,” Izzy goaded. “I wanna see how it looks on you!”

“I don’t know,” Strip hesitated. Historically speaking, converting from one mode to another after anesthesia had never agreed with him.

“It shouldn’t hurt as much as it used to,” Rick informed. “Go on and try it.”

Much to his chagrin, Strip braced himself and triggered the transformation. The smoothness surprised him. The panels didn’t move around in a jagged fashion anymore, and he couldn’t feel the mechanical releases clicking in and out of place. It was almost fluid, and much quieter than it had been. However, despite the improvements, he found himself losing awareness of himself and his surroundings. As the conversion came to a finish, he forced his eyes shut and tried to focus on which way was up. The familiar nauseating aftereffect remained, but after a few moments of adjustment, disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” Izzy exclaimed, driving around him and checking him out. “We match!”

Strip took a breath and looked at himself in a nearby reflective glass pane. Izzy had a point. At first glance, they looked almost identical in flight mode. The only difference was that he was still slightly bigger.

“This new stuff shaves a couple hundred pounds off,” Rick told him. “New engines use less fuel so you can go farther on what you have.”

“You take care of the weight issue after I retire?” Strip asked, wiggling his wing flaps and getting a feel for them. They felt incredibly precise.

“No more need for a runway, either,” Rick ignored his remark. “Engines can lift you straight up in the air. Uses more fuel than taking off normally, but I thought it could be useful.”

Strip found he could rotate his thrusters. It felt weird not having them locked in place, but it was one feature he’d always longed for as a child. He found it slightly ironic that he was graced with it in middle age.

“Well, Rick, it’s smoother than it was, but I wouldn’t say it’s any less uncomfortable,” Strip admitted.

“So, what do _you_ think?” Izzy asked Lynda, who’d been sitting by, silently watching.

Strip looked to his wife and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Her expression was more surprise than anything, but he’d always tried his best to separate her from his association with the war. Even though the past few days felt like an instant to him, she’d been there that whole time, undoubtedly learning more about his past than he ever shared.

“I’ve only seen you like this, what, once?” she asked him, driving closer. “And that time was in the dark.”

“You’ve been married how long?” Izzy asked, surprised.

“I avoid doin’ this, Iz,” Strip explained, turning to apologize to his wife. “Sorry, Lyn, I forgot, I’ll just change back and – ”

“No, no,” Lynda smiled at him. “I never get to see this.”

She drove around him and inspected him from every angle. It dawned on him that while she’d never really asked about his life at the factory, that didn’t mean she didn’t want to know. She simply kept quiet to keep from making him uncomfortable, not the other way around. He suddenly felt stupid for taking so long to realize it. He didn’t hate talking about it _that_ much, he just didn’t want to dwell on it.

Lynda reached out and traced the altered curvature of his body with her tire. “Better than I remember. Crazy what’s possible these days, ain’t it?”

Izzy watched her touch him and snickered. “Should we leave you alone?”

Strip shot her a glare. Lynda laughed a little.

“Maybe.”

Strip sighed and suffered through the conversion again. Once back to normal, he looked to Rick.

“What now?”

The question was simple, but no one, not even Rick, had a definitive answer.

“Keep an eye out,” he responded. “And be ready, both of you. I’ve been monitoring the news. The world didn’t take too kindly to Hicks’ win, if you want to call it that, and he doesn’t seem to be responding well to the dissident. Between that and the so-called deadline Stephen had that’s passed, I would expect something to happen soon. Couldn’t tell you when or where, though.”

“Hmm,” Strip pondered it for a moment. “I think I have a good idea where to start. I got a kid to go thank, anyway.”


	23. Part 3, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strip finally gets to meet his life-long idol.

“Wow. That many wins in a single season.”

Junior stared at the three Piston Cups on the display before him, starry eyed.

“He’s the real deal, Junior. The Hudson Hornet was my inspiration.”

Strip could barely contain his excitement. He’d come all the way to Arizona to express his gratitude to Lightning, but before they drove more than a hundred yards into town, he’d noticed the racing museum. No one could have stopped him from going in even if they’d wanted to.

Lynda could hear the excitement in her husband’s voice. They’d crossed paths with Junior on the way out west, and of course, Strip’s first instinct had been to invite the younger car to go with them. Now she had to take care of not one, but effectively the equivalent of two kids in a candy store.

“Excuse me, son? Is Doc Hudson here today?” she asked politely, thinking Strip would get a kick out of meeting his idol.

“Sorry Mrs. the King, I think Doc went out for a drive or somethin’,” the friendly tour guide apologized.

Strip continued to look at the display. It was small, as was the museum, but there, not ten yards away, were the very trophies he’d seen the Hornet win over and over again. The fact that they really existed and weren’t some figment of his imagination seemed so surreal. He may have had seven of these trophies at home with his name on them, but they paled in comparison to these.

Mater guided them out of the museum at the end of the tour. A blue Porsche was speaking with a Ferrari and two Maseratis, out-of-towners who were patiently awaiting their turn for a museum tour.

“Howdy, Sally!” Mater greeted her as she turned toward him. “Perty day, ain’t it?”

“Hey, Mater,” Sally greeted him with a smile. “Ready for another tour? These guys are good to go.”

“Sure thing! Follow me, fellas, right this way.”

Mater held the door open for the Italian supercars and disappeared inside after them. With the impulsive museum stop over with, Strip looked toward the lazy town ahead on down the road. The backdrop was magnificent. He’d never seen Cadillac Range from outside his trailer before.

“Well!” Sally greeted the new visitors. “Welcome to Radiator Springs! I’m glad you all stopped by.”

“Pleasure to be here, ma’am,” Strip said respectfully. “Felt we needed to pay some due respect.”

Sally smiled with genuine understanding. She may not have been at that last race, but the outcome had brought her to tears.

“Doc and Stic- Lightning are out this way, if you wanna go meet them,” she offered, gesturing out into the desert.

Only then did the three visitors pick up two distinct engine notes echoing across the land in the near distance. Strip recognized the familiar acceleration pattern.

“Dirt track?” he asked.

“Yeah, come on,” Sally pulled out onto the road.

“We’ve lost him,” Lynda muttered to Junior as Strip eagerly followed. Strip cast a glance back as Junior snickered.

The track around Willys Butte was picturesque, everything Strip ever dreamed a dirt track could be. Just seeing it made him feel twenty years younger.

Out from around the rock formation, Lightning and the Hudson Hornet sped out of turn two side by side, trailing a cloud of dust that dissipated in the wind. Strip knew what was coming. He found himself holding his breath as they entered turn three, swinging into a drift. The old car’s movements were more fluid in person than in the videos.

Lynda looked over at him as they parked atop a bench in the land to watch. She could feel the excitement radiating from him. The look in his eyes was the same one she’d seen the first time he’d shown her those old tapes he prized. That must have been thirty-some years ago. She smiled, happy to see that same young car again, but didn’t say anything.

“They’ve been out here for almost an hour,” Sally said. “If either of them are ever missing at the same time, you could bet money they’re out here.”

“Bet you didn’t expect a racecar to show up out of the blue, did you, hun?” Lynda asked her, striking up friendly conversation.

“Not in the least,” Sally answered. “But it was the best thing that’s happened to this town in decades. Funny, really. Doc hated him at first.”

The ladies slipped into conversation. It became apparent that Lightning meant much more to Sally than as a friend. Strip could hear it in the way she talked, and Lynda knew how to ask all the right questions.

“Look at ‘em go,” Junior commented as the two cars on the track ran lap after lap.

“Think you can do it?” Strip asked him.

“I dunno, King,” Junior shook himself in disinclination. “I was built for asphalt. Can’t say I ever raced on dirt before. I know my old man told me about it once. Said it was the hardest thing he ever tried.”

“You don’t know if you don’t try.”

Junior didn’t want to admit his main fear was being humiliated in front of two of greatest racers that ever lived. Before he could answer, he looked up and made eye contact with Lightning. The red racer slowed down and said something to his mentor. They both glided off the track and over to their company. Junior sighed with relief. He was out of the hot seat for now.

“Hey guys!” Lightning exclaimed, sincerely happy to see them. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Spur of the moment,” Junior shrugged.

Doc drove up beside Lightning to get a good look at the visitors as McQueen carried on.

“This is great!” McQueen didn’t hesitate to show his excitement.

His gaze settled on Strip. “Wow, Mr. the King, you look…” he trailed off as he did the math in his head. It’d been less than a week since the tiebreaker race. “Wow. That was fast.”

Doc smacked the rookie in the side to remind him of his manners. Strip didn’t mind.

“Can only sit still for so long, kid.”

Lightning tried to shake his astonishment in an awkward pause. He cleared his throat as he remembered his place.

“Right, right,” he said. “You probably all know each other, but guys, this is Doc, he –”

“So,” Doc cut McQueen off and rolled forward toward Strip a little. “You think you’re built for speed, eh?”

It was silent except for the wind blowing through the local flora. Lightning’s eyes widened in embarrassment. Junior’s mouth fell open at a loss for words. Even Sally seemed unsettled by Doc’s jab. No one insulted the King to his face.

It was the best day of his life.

“Is that a challenge?” Strip asked with a smile.

“Why don’t we see how the King of asphalt does on a little dirt?” Doc asked.

Strip started his engine and followed the smug Hudson Hornet to the starting line. Lightning snapped out of his frozen state of disbelief as they passed him.

“Uh, Doc, I don’t think that’s… You might wanna…” he stuttered, trying to find the right words. He looked to Sally, a pleading look in his eyes. “What do I do?”

“Don’t look at me, Stickers,” Sally told him. “Racing is your thing.”

 “Uh…” Lightning looked around as if the answer to his concerns was out in the desert somewhere.

“Come here, kid!” Doc hollered at him. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

Lightning cringed and turned back toward the track.

“This is gonna be good,” Junior remarked, moving over and parking closer to Lynda.

“I swear if he gets so much as a scratch on that new paint, I’m gonna beat him,” Lynda muttered.

Sally muffled a laugh and held her peace. She knew what could happen on this track, but didn’t say anything. Doc clearly wanted to know something they didn’t.

Lightning pulled onto the track and faced the two elder racecars. He didn’t try to hide his concern.

“Doc, shouldn’t we – ”

“Quiet, son, just start the race.”

Lightning looked from his mentor to Strip. The Dinoco racer stared past him at the turn in the distance. There was no stopping this race. Lightning knew how it would end.

“Alright,” he gave in powerlessly. “Ready in three! Two! Go!”

The two were off in a flash, leaving Lightning behind in a settling cloud of dust.

“This isn’t gonna end well,” McQueen muttered, driving off the track to watch from the side.

Strip pulled ahead of Doc in turns one and two, using his higher power to weight ratio to his advantage. Doc might have had all the experience in the world, but Strip was still faster. Coming down the backstretch between turns two and three, he felt himself slow. He wouldn’t feel right flat out beating the Hudson Hornet, even in a friendly race. Doc crept up next to him right before sliding into turn three and took the lead.

Doc fully expected to hear the melody of metal scraping along cactus behind him. It never happened. Doc looked to his left, pleasantly surprised. He knew the Superbirds had been built specifically to perform well on the superspeedways, but this one didn’t shy away from a challenge. Less than three feet behind him, Strip was gliding through the turn sideways like he’d been doing it his entire life.

Strip had, in fact, never done this before. Not on a real track anyway. On the backroads of North Carolina? Sure, when no one else was around. Never this, though. He felt his soul elevating to another plane of existence as he put the pressure on his racing inspiration.

Halfway through turn four, his inexperience on dirt shone through his façade of confident enjoyment. A crosswind came along and caught his spoiler just enough to take him out of his groove. He braked to avoid careening out of control, and lost momentum.

Doc saw him falter and used that to his advantage. He floored it out of the turn and bore down on the finish line ahead. No less than a hundred yards before it, however, he found himself nose to nose with the younger blue car. Doc felt himself grin. Weathers still had a lot left in him, too.

They crossed the finish line together. It was so close they didn’t know who’d technically won. It didn’t matter. Strip looked over at Doc as they slowed to a halt and found the dirt track legend staring back at him. He realized he’d never actually thought about what he’d say to the Fabulous Hudson Hornet if he ever had the chance to meet him.

“Hmm,” Doc mused, turning toward Strip to get a better look at him. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Strip didn’t know how to respond. He started talking before he knew what he was saying.

“Well, I guess I couldn’t just outright beat you, now could I?”

_That was terrible. Why would you say that? Pull yourself together. You’re a professional._

“Oh! So, you pulled power. Alright then,” Doc took joking offense to Strip’s comment. “Wanna go ‘round again? So you can do it right this time?”

Strip smiled and looked back down the front straightaway. Their small audience was visibly excited, even from such a distance. Something about the moment seemed far too perfect.

Doc followed his gaze and instantly saw the look of relief on his rookie’s face. He laughed a little, knowing full well what Lightning had expected.

“I knew you’d make it around that turn there,” Doc commended him on a more serious note. “You had a heck of a career, Weathers. I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

Strip shrugged, a little embarrassed. He wasn’t prepared to talk about himself. This was _the_ Fabulous Hudson Hornet. The conversation should have been all about him, right?

“Eh, well, had a lot of practice,” Strip accepted the compliment as humbly as he could. “Made a lot of mistakes. Had a heck of an inspiration, though.”

Doc caught on to what he meant, and felt a strange sense of fulfillment. The racing world might have turned their backs on him, but that didn’t erase his legacy. He forgot that sometimes.

“It’s nice to know they all ain’t like I thought they were,” Doc told him quietly.

Strip hesitated, unsure at first what Doc meant. He saw the Hornet cast a glance down toward McQueen before returning. The racers. The racing community. That’s what he meant. Strip briefly considered what it would have been like to have someone tell him he could never race again. It would have broken him.

“You know, you did a good job with that one,” Strip gestured toward Lightning. “I guess I owe you as much thanks as I do him.”

Doc smiled and turned to drive back to the others. “You’ll find throwin’ ‘em into the tulips is pretty effective.”

Strip didn’t have a clue what that was supposed to mean, but followed anyway.

“Come on, let’s head back to Flo’s for a drink,” Doc invited. “I want an unfiltered version of hotrod’s life in the fast lane before I whipped him into shape.”


	24. Part 3, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weathers' stay in Radiator Springs is uneventful, but things can change quickly.

Radiator Springs was a decent vacation spot despite its size. It felt nice to spend a couple days at ease, exploring the shops in town, attending the drive-in at night, and milling around the scenic countryside in the daytime. Strip felt every bit as comfortable there as he did in his own hometown. The townsfolk were warm and welcoming, completely down to earth. McQueen had stumbled upon a true gem.

Strip and Lynda spent a few full days there, getting to know McQueen and his newfound friends better. In some ways, it was an excellent start to an extended retirement vacation, but Strip couldn’t help but feel his ulterior motive for being there eating away at his conscience. A week and a half had passed since the tiebreaker race and Chick still hadn’t shown.

It had taken but half a day for him to say what he needed to say to Lightning, and that hadn’t been much. His visit to the town showed his appreciation for Lightning’s actions more than words could say. There was little need to mention it further.

The rest of the time Strip kept an eye out for anything suspicious or out of place. There was nothing. The tourists flowed in and out of the town at their leisure. Aside from their quirks, the residents of the town seemed normal, interacting with anyone and everyone freely. There wasn’t anything in that town that hinted at the prospects of war in the least, save the surplus shop.

“Maybe you’re just lookin’ in the wrong place,” Lynda told him one night as he voiced his concern. “You never know what Ford’s got planned.”

“I know. Maybe,” Strip sighed. “I just really thought things were gonna start movin’, you know? I wanna get this over with so we can enjoy ourselves again. I’m tired of life bein’ interrupted.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly, pausing as she thought a little more. “Strip? I have a question.”

He looked up at her and found her frowning, deep in thought. “Alright. You know you can ask me anythin’, Lyn.”

“I believe that you’re gonna live through the end of this war, no matter how it turns out,” she began, picking her words carefully. “You’ve survived too much for me to believe otherwise. But it has to end. Rick said it himself – someone has to die. I know you better than anyone does. When it comes down to it, are you gonna do the job? Because I don’t think you will.”

Strip took a deep breath and faced the facts. He knew himself. He knew the situation. As much as he wanted to end this war – not even win it, just end it – he never saw himself pulling the trigger. Where Izzy wouldn’t hesitate to take Chick out, he just couldn’t do it, no matter how much he resented the Buick. There’d been enough death already.

Lynda saw the look in his eyes. “Mm-hm. I thought so. What’s your plan, then?”

“Protect the kid. I’ll do what I have to if it means he stays safe, but no more than that,” Strip admitted. “Guess that’s not a good way to end this thing, is it?”

“No, but that’s what separates you from the others and keeps you from becomin’ somethin’ you ain’t,” she said, softening her tone. “I want you to promise me one thing, Strip.”

“What is it?”

“You need to protect yourself, too,” she reminded him. “When it comes down to it, I need you. Izzy needs you. Heck, I believe Rick does too. And don’t get me started on the race fans.”

“Okay,” he promised. “I don’t intend on goin’ anywhere, Lyn, I love you. You know that. I’ll find a way out.”

They left the next evening having called the Dinoco haulers for a lift back home. Driving through the night suited everyone better. There was less traffic for the semis to weave through, and Strip and Lynda got to sleep peacefully while making good time. The sun began to rise as they passed through eastern Oklahoma.

“Stopping off for fuel,” Gray announced as they pulled off the interstate toward a truck stop.

Strip yawned and looked out the window. The gas station looked mostly desolate with only a few sleeping trucks parked off in the rest area. It would be a good opportunity to get out and move around a little without being mobbed by lurking fans.

The haulers parked both trailers in the far corner of an isolated lot before driving off to the fuel pumps. Strip lowered the ramp and rolled out into the gray, foggy morning air. It was cool and refreshing.

“Wake up, Lyn,” he knocked on the ramp of her trailer. “It’s mornin’ time.”

He heard her shuffle around a little, muttering indistinctly. Somewhere in there, he was certain he heard a “no”, but the ramp started to lower regardless. He moved out of the way.

“Want a coffee?” he asked, noticing the diner attached to the station.

Lynda looked at him with a disheveled look and blinked a couple times. She must have been sound asleep.

“Give me a second to wake up,” she muttered as she drove down the ramp onto the pavement.

Strip drove around beside her trailer to get a good look at their surroundings. Six commercial haulers were passed out at the other end of the lot, not far from the interstate on ramp. Aside from the occasional early morning traveler passing by, all was silent except for the wind blowing across the flat landscape.

“Brr,” Lynda shivered, driving up beside him and leaning against his side. “It’s cold out here. Where are we?”

“Almost to Arkansas, I think,” he answered absentmindedly. “Makin’ good time.”

“Come on, let’s go get somethin’ hot to drink,” she gave him a little nudge in the direction of the café.

He started to roll in that direction when a familiar block of color emerged on the horizon, heading their way. He braked and quickly backed into the shadow between the trailers. Alarmed as his sudden movement, Lynda got out of sight as well.

“What is it?” she asked quietly, driving around behind him and looking back toward the road.

“Tell me if I’m seein’ things,” he responded, gesturing down the road.

Despite his prior wishes for things to start happening, he hoped that it was anything else, like a commercial carrier for a company that advertised heavily in the color green. Even in the dim light and hazy atmosphere, he knew better. A racer’s trailer was easy to spot.

“Here’s your sign,” Lynda commented as Hick’s trailer passed the rest stop and continued out west.

Strip grew quiet as he considered what to do. Having the haulers turn around and go back in the direction they’d come would be too suspicious, and not to mention would raise questions he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t just take off on his own and follow, he stood out like a flashy advertisement on a billboard and his crew would wonder where he went. The current situation made it impossible to disappear.

“Hey, listen,” Lynda grabbed his attention, driving around him again to face him straight on. “You know what you need to do.”

He looked at her, expecting to find some sort of excuse not to pursue. The last time he’d left her, she’d been a mess. He saw no semblance of that now. She looked every bit as determined and fearless as he knew he should be.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked her, conscious of her past reactions.

“Strip, you promised me the other night you’d be alright,” she reminded him. “You’ve never once broken a promise to me. Except that one time you promised me dinner and a movie and the drive-in was closed when we got there. But that wasn’t your fault.”

He smiled at the memory. That whole date had been a disaster, and yet some thirty years later they were still together, closer than ever. He had every intention of spending that much longer with her.

“Look, you can get out of here before the fog evaporates,” Lynda pointed to the field behind them. “Just go out there until you can’t see the road anymore and take off. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Gray’s gonna lose his mind if he finds out what’s goin’ on,” Strip said, looking back toward the fuel pumps. “I can’t just disappear.”

“Yes, you can,” Lynda protested. “I’ll cover for you. They’ll be confused, but they won’t find out anythin’. I just want you to get this over with so we can live our lives the way we want. I know you want that, too.”

Strip nodded. “Alright. Thanks, Lynda, really.”

She rolled her eyes and reached out with her tire to tap him on the fender. “I’m puttin’ a lot of faith in this new bulletproof stuff they put in you. Just stay away from any big buildin’s this time, will you?”

“Okay.”

Lynda placed a gentle kiss on his lips before he turned to leave. It was a language that he understood well, and said more than she could have put into words. As he drove off into the fog, he felt determined that this was it. This was the last time he’d ever have to leave. He’d come back from this and finally, _finally_ get to live a life of peace. Well, as peaceful as a retired racing legend’s life could be.

Lynda reentered her trailer as she heard him take to the air in the distance and started sobbing.

* * *

Strip circled overhead, high enough to be out of sight, but low enough to make out the cars on the road below. The second the green car carrier took the exit to Route 66, he made a beeline for Radiator Springs. Chick wouldn’t ever just stop by and have a friendly visit with the rival that had effectively ruined his image and potentially even his career. Strip had to get there first.

The afternoon burned hot against the desert as Strip touched down on an outcrop, facing east off Cadillac Range. The town bustled below him, active and happy as ever. As far as he could see, hundreds of cars cruised the mother road. Hundreds of cars and a lime green box slowly snaking its way toward civilization.

Out of habit, Strip backed into the shadow of a rock bluff to continue observing. The matte black paint of the bulletproof flight panels was excellent at keeping him hidden in the dark and concealing his identity, but it stood out in high contrast against the light colored stone around him. It was unlikely anyone down below would look up and see him, but he couldn’t afford to be careless.

To the left of the town, Lightning and Doc were taking a few laps around the dirt track again. Even from so far away, Strip saw and analyzed every move the legend taught the rookie. He wondered how different his career would have been had he had a mentor like that. He wondered if Lightning knew how lucky he was.

The Hostile Takeover Bank hauler parked right on the edge of town, pulling off the road before passing the racing museum. Chick exited the trailer quickly and came around to say a few words to the semi. Strangely, the truck didn’t stick around. He turned the rig around and headed right back the direction they’d come, leaving Hicks sitting alone in the dust.

Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover the way Chick acted. He sat in the same place for several long moments – possibly a couple minutes, as tourists of all sorts passed him by. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to be there. Eventually, he drove into town and stopped by Flo’s. Strip pulled out his long-range rifle and peered through the scope, ready to intervene in an emergency.

It wasn’t needed. Chick sat at the far end of the café alone, ordered a drink, and drank it in silence. The townsfolk eyed him suspiciously, and he glared at them in return. He knew he wasn’t welcome.


	25. Part 3, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning and Doc don't take very kindly to Chick being in their town. Likewise, Chick doesn't much want to be there. But he's got a job to do.

“Alright kid, that’s enough for today.”

Doc slowed and pulled off the track. Lightning followed suit, smirking as the dust settled.

“Too much for you?” the rookie asked. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to feel that old age.”

“Lesson of the day,” Doc said, casting him a flinty stare, “learn to quit while you’re ahead. You’ll never tire yourself out.”

“Mm-hm, sure,” Lightning responded sarcastically. Doc didn’t need to know that he was going to go write that down once they got back to town. He didn’t need to know about the list of recorded advice Lightning kept hidden.

The two of them cruised back to town, silently aware of the bustling road in the distance. It hadn’t been but the day after the tiebreaker race when business returned to Radiator Springs as quickly as it had vanished. Lightning remembered finding Sally in near tears the night he came home – tears of joy. He smiled at the thought of her.

Lightning, oblivious to the world around him, had plans to shoot straight through town to the Cozy Cone Motel to pay her a visit. First, that was where he hid his journal of hastily given advice. Second, he had some questions that had been burning through his mind for a couple of days. He thought she was his girlfriend, and he felt certain she would agree. However, they hadn’t ever actually said so, and the miniscule fraction of his mind that doubted how she felt plagued him. He was going to get answers.

McQueen worked out how to phrase the question as he and Doc rolled past Flo and Ramone’s house. His train of thought was abruptly interrupted at the sound of the old car’s scoff.

“Who the heck invited that guy?”

Lightning followed Doc’s gaze to Flo’s station and felt the wind go out of his sails. Parked across the bay was the stickered-up battering ram of a competitor he thought he’d left in California. Chick saw Lightning at the same time Lightning noticed him. A scheming glint crossed the Buick’s eyes as he moved out of his spot toward the rookie.

Lightning frowned. He’d seen the interviews. Heck, he’d been there for some of them. He remembered seeing the footage of Chick being booed out of Victory Lane. They’d attended a press conference together after the King had been airlifted from the track to who knows where. Chick did nothing but brag about his fearless techniques and bash the older racer, as though he wasn’t getting up there in age himself. Lightning knew how the majority of the racing world had turned against him. Something in the back of his mind told him Hicks held him accountable for that. McQueen had been as polite as possible at the time, but no one was going to bring that sort of trash into his town - not if he had anything to say about it.

“Hey, McQueen,” Chick greeted him as if they were best friends. “This is the place you ended up in? Gotta tell you, kid, if you’re into dusty antiques, you’ve hit the jackpot here.”

“What are you doing here, Chick?” Lightning didn’t bother to disguise his annoyance.

“What, can’t I just come hang out?” Chick retorted lightheartedly.  “Life of a Piston Cup champion can be kinda lonely, you know. The girls, the attention – it all gets old pretty fast.”

“Gets old pretty fast, huh?” Lightning mocked, his usual filter gone. “I guess you’d know all about that.”

Chick frowned at the remark and opened his mouth to strike back, but Doc cut him off.

“Listen, there ain’t gonna be any troublemakers in this town under my watch,” Doc informed him gruffly. “If you’re here to stir up racetrack politics, you might as well leave.”

“Wow, not a very welcoming bunch, eh?” Chick mused, struggling to reign in his agitation.

“We’re not lookin’ for trouble,” Doc responded. “If you’re here to enjoy the town, then have at it. Just know that we’ve got no tolerance for -”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Chick stole the conversation back from the legend. “I’m just passin’ through. Thought I’d check out the sort of place that holds famous racers hostage is all.”

Doc glared at Chick, but didn’t say anything. Lightning sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Anyhow,” Chick said after a moment of awkward silence, “I’m gonna go check some stuff out, see what you all have to offer. I expect great things, McQueen.”

Hicks sharply turned and drove through the intersection, cutting a few tourists off and ignoring the caution light. Lightning and Doc sat in silence while they listened to his engine rev obnoxiously as he exited the town.

“Well, I didn’t expect that,” Lightning mumbled.

“I don’t trust him,” Doc said. “I don’t know why he’s here, but somethin’ doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s just Chick,” Lightning shrugged. “He’s probably just here to rub his win in some more. No big deal. We’ll just tolerate him until he leaves.”

Doc grunted in disapproval. Lightning rolled forward toward the intersection, trying to remember where he had been going and why.

* * *

 

Strip relaxed and watched from the mountainside as Chick took off out of town, putting away his weapon. Eventually, the Grand National disappeared around the range beyond Wheel Well. There was nothing but desert for miles out in that direction. Where was he going? Why would he stop, say a few words, and then leave on his own?

_Huh._

Shifting his attention back to the town, Strip wondered if he should pursue Chick for no other reason than to keep an eye on him. No. It would be a waste of fuel and energy. McQueen was still in town, and that was his main priority. Still, what was Chick up to?

The day came to a close. Far below, the neon lights lit up the night as the sun sank behind the mountain range. For a few more hours, the town would be vibrant and alive before drifting off to sleep. The silent, flashing lights lulled the world around them into a hypnosis of sorts, a real-world time machine of decades past.

Strip fought off his own exhaustion, knowing better than to let his guard down. He hadn’t come that far and survived all that he had just to be taken by surprise now that it mattered most.

His efforts were futile. As the neon lights went out for the night, so did he.

The sky was beginning to gray with morning light when he awoke. An engine churned in the distance. Panicked, Strip looked out toward the dirt track and felt ice-cold fear splinter through him. McQueen was tearing that dirt track apart, doing some solo training - except he wasn’t alone.

Strip cursed himself. How could he just fall asleep?

He spooled his engines.

* * *

 

Lightning always awoke first on Saturday mornings. It was the best time to go out and run laps before the heat and pressure of the day kicked in. The air was cool and fresh, and the dew had yet to evaporate. The plants all around glistened with it.

Aside from his own engine and a few lackluster birds singing in the distance, all was quiet. This was how he preferred to train when Doc wasn’t around – just him, the track, and the sound of pure, unadulterated horsepower. Out here, he didn’t take being a racecar for granted.

For the eighteenth time, he drifted around turns three and four with practiced precision. Even though Doc was still sound asleep in his garage, Lightning knew his mentor would be impressed. Of course, Doc never acted impressed out there. That was his domain. But Lightning could see through the old cars façade. He knew he could make Doc proud.

McQueen went around again. Coming down the backstretch, he focused in on turn three. He anticipated swinging his body into that turn and letting his momentum do the work for him. It was graceful. He felt even better about this drift than he had the last, and found himself looking toward town as though he expected Doc to be on his way to commend him.

The pair of eyes that stared back at him weren’t Doc’s. Lightning faltered and lost control of his drift, spinning around a couple times before grinding to a halt. Taken off guard, he scowled at his rival, sitting by the edge of the track.

“How long have you been sitting there?” he asked.

Chick shrugged and rolled out onto the track. “Not long. I heard someone making a racket out here and came to check it out. So this is it? This is how you train? Come _on_ , McQueen. This is stuff of the past!”

“You disappeared last night and didn’t come back.” Lightning ignored the insult as he felt an edge creep into his voice that reflected his rising discomfort. “Thought you decided to leave. Not much in this dusty, antique town for you, is there?”

“There’s really not,” Chick admitted. “But, it does have what I came for.”

“And that is?” Lightning asked, his voice tight.

“Yeah, well, before we get to that,” Chick waved away his question and drove a little bit up the track, “I wanna ask you how you did what you did this year. Y’know, coming in out of nowhere, challenging the best of us.”

Lightning thought the question was pointless, but answered anyway. “I just did what I do best. I race. I don’t think about it that much.”

“Is that so?”

Chick didn’t phrase it as a question. It sounded more like a disappointed observation. He stopped and turned again to face Lightning, looking him over.

“What’s going on, Chick?” McQueen asked somberly.

“So you just go out there, don’t think about what you’re doin’, and you win?” Chick ignored his question again. He had questions of his own. “You don’t even try and suddenly you’re a rockstar? I think there’s something you’re not tellin’ me. A little something extra under the hood maybe?”

Lightning let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me. I’m a racecar, you’re a racecar, that’s all we are. Some of us just happen to be better. Out with the old, in with the new, or so you say.”

Chick paused, unfazed at Lightning’s indirect affront. He recalled what Stephen told him a few short weeks ago. At the time, he thought it was a trap, some false rumor leaked to lure him to his death. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“You really have no clue, do you?” It was Chick’s turn to be serious. Lightning hesitated at the sudden change in the Buick’s voice.

“No clue about what?” McQueen couldn’t handle it, and raised his voice. “I’m not playing your games, Chick. I don’t know what you want. You won the race, isn’t that good enough for you?”

“I did what I had to do,” Chick said. “Turns out winning wasn’t good enough for them, and here I am. I thought you’d understand, but it turns out the gossip’s true. You really don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”

Lightning stared at Chick incredulously. “Them? Who’s ‘them’? Are you on something right now? Party a little too hard maybe? You’re not making any sense.”

Somewhere above them, the sound of an airliner broke the otherwise peaceful backdrop. Chick flinched at the sudden sound, but forced himself to focus. This was his opportunity to fulfill a contract signed long ago, here alone in the middle of a desert. Years ago, he would have preferred something much more dramatic, but now this would have to do.

He sighed and for a split second, genuinely looked apologetic.

 “Y’know, kid, you were gonna be one of the greats. Not that I wanted you to be, but you know, if it means anything,” he shuffled his right front tire across the dirt. “Sorry I have to do this.”

Chick’s right front fender folded outward, unveiling a weapon that looked like a small rocket launcher, loaded automatically.

McQueen froze in fear as he stared straight down the barrel.

As the residents of Radiator Springs awoke, gunfire was heard for the first time anyone could remember.


	26. Part 3, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McQueen doesn't have a clue what's going on.

Bullets rained from above as a dark shape went streaking overhead at high speed. Chick screamed as several bullets deflected off his hood and bit into the dirt around him. He flinched and pulled the trigger. The projectile missed McQueen by mere inches and exploded against Willys Butte. Large chunks of rock fell as the fiery inferno dissipated.

Lightning wanted so badly to escape, but his body wouldn’t react. _Drive! Drive you idiot!_ His mind raced. It couldn’t escape the sight of the barrel that had been pointed at his hood. He saw the bullets tearing at the ground around Chick. Chick had tried to kill him - _kill him!_ Now someone was trying to kill Chick? What?

Chick instinctively snapped his attention to the enemy in the sky. The black flyer was mid-bank, turning around to fly back at him. The early morning sunlight glinted off the gun barrels extending from either side of the fighter. Chick took aim and waited.

“You,” Hicks growled as one of his long forgotten enemies lined up for another strike. “Where’s your friend?”

Strip righted himself as he bore down on Chick a second time. It had been too close. If he’d shown up a second later, McQueen would’ve been a goner. This was no time for narrow escapes. He had to get Lightning clear of the situation.

_Krakakakakakak._ He fired another set of rounds at Chick. These bullets wouldn’t penetrate the Buick’s armor, but they _would_ penetrate rubber, and that would slow him down. In a few seconds, Hick’s right two tires looked like they’d gone through a shredder. _Bmpsssshhhh._ Chick fired another short-range missile. Strip corkscrewed around it.

_Click_. The sound snapped Lightning’s attention from the inbound – what was it? A car? A plane? Both? – back to Chick. Hicks frowned and shook the weapon he wielded. _Click._ Chick swore. He hit the gun again, but to no avail. It was jammed. Lightning watched in horror as his rival’s left front fender folded away to reveal a smaller counterpart weapon. A backup.

Chick aimed to the sky once again, but before pulling the trigger thought better of himself. Chrysler’s fighters couldn’t pierce his armor. He knew that. _They_ knew that. His job was to take out McQueen. McQueen was still sitting there, mere yards away, frozen like a statue. Chick lowed his gun and returned to his original target.

Strip pushed himself. Chick took aim. Strip saw the trigger pull as he pushed himself into the space between the two cars on the ground. A deafening blast hit him square in the side as he intercepted the shot. He yelled in pain, but didn’t feel the telltale signs of internal damage. The new panels must have worked.

Chick limped backwards in surprise as the jet reeled back and regained its composure. They hadn’t been able to do that before – had they? Chick watched in growing uneasiness as his enemy came to a halt nearby, rotated the secondary engines, and returned to hover in front of him, blocking a clear shot to McQueen. Dust filled the air as the force from the jet engines pushed against the ground.

Strip watched as Chick slowly backed away. There was fear in his eyes, but also rage. It was a deadly combination. Strip took aim at the larger gun and let loose another round of shots. The mangled piece of metal fell harmlessly to the ground. Chick’s gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance.

“Kid, what’re you doin’ sittin’ there?” Strip turned slightly to look at Lightning, half hidden in the cloud of dust he was kicking up. “Get out of here! Drive!”

“Huh?” Lightning looked up at the hovering fighter, shaking.

“Go,” Strip told him in a gentler tone, pleading with him and speaking only loud enough to be heard above the roaring winds keeping him afloat. “Drive, and whatever you do, don’t stop. Now!”

Lightning blinked a few times and looked around. _Right. Drive._

“Go on!”

Lightning pulled himself together. _Drive_. He revved his engine, missed first gear and took off in second toward town. He felt like something was chasing him, something deadly, but unlike in a nightmare, this was real.

_Chick had tried to kill him._

And why did that other thing’s voice sound so familiar?

Strip positioned himself in front of Chick as Lightning headed for the hills, and settled on the ground, switching his engines off. Chick looked at his tattered weapon and growled.

“Just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” Chick asked. “Well, in case you forgot what happened last time up in Michigan – ”

Strip clenched his teeth and fought the urge to end things right then and there. His vision blurred as his anger escalated. Chick’s weak spots were his fenders where the guns were exposed. He could easily shoot through the open space and render his life-long rival’s engine obsolete. Death would come quickly after that.

_No. Watch yourself. That isn’t you. Don’t do somethin’ you’ll regret._

Instead, Strip pointed his own weapons at Chick, keeping silent but edging toward him. He still had the advantage. Chick didn’t know who he was or of what he was truly capable. Intimidation tactics would work every bit as well as force as long as that held true.

Chick backed away, wobbling on shredded tires, into a grove of cacti. He wanted to keep as much distance between them as possible. He’d been trained in long- to mid-range combat, not close-range.  He stopped when he felt his back wheels slip off a ledge.

“Tryin’ to corner me, I see what you’re doin’,” Chick said, unamused. He mentally kicked himself for being so foolish and unaware of his surroundings.

Strip stopped. In the distance, he could still hear Lightning’s engine. The kid must have made it to town. That was safe enough a distance for now. Strip dropped one of the smaller airstrike missiles from underneath his right wing and tossed it toward the Buick.

Chick jumped back. The last time he’d seen one of those, the last of his minions had gone up in flames. He moved too far. Both rear wheels fell over the edge of the precipice, and he came to a rest on his undercarriage. There was nothing nearby to pull himself up with, and he had no idea how steep the drop was below. He started to panic.

Strip turned and hurriedly drove toward the track, gaining speed and pushing himself back into the air. He circled a few times over the track, gaining altitude and waiting for the bomb to go off.

It did, blowing a chunk out of the embankment and sending Chick over the edge. The Buick rolled a couple of times, but came to a rest right side up at the bottom of the forty-foot drop seemingly unharmed. That would do for now.

* * *

Lightning rocketed through town, frantically looking for his friends. Somewhere behind him, an explosion detonated. The ground tremored.

“What’s goin’ on, boy?”

Sheriff met Lightning on the road in front of Flo’s. The officer’s concern echoed across the faces of all the townsfolk as they rolled closer behind him. Doc pushed his way through and parked next to Sheriff, idling high.

“Talk, racecar,” Doc ordered. “We heard gunshots. And whatever that just was.”

Lightning’s gaze drifted back toward the track. A plume of smoke rose through the air as that mysterious black plane rose above the horizon. The droning sound of its engines made the townsfolk uneasy.

“Uh, McQueen?” Mater asked, worried.

“We need to evacuate,” Lightning found his voice. “Now – get everyone somewhere safe!”

A startled murmur rose from the café. Doc and Sheriff frowned, noticing the flying black shape over the track.

“Answer my question, kid,” Sheriff demanded. “Are you hurt? Who fired those shots?”

“I’m fine,” Lightning shook himself as panic emanated from him, “ - wait, no, I’m not. Chick’s on a rampage. Said he had to _kill_ me.”

“What?” several cars voiced simultaneously.

“I don’t know!” Lightning responded. “But he’s armed and dangerous, and I – ”

Only then did it sink in just how close he came to being flat out _murdered_. A chill ran through his frame as he trailed off midsentence.

“What’s that?” Doc asked, pointing at the sky behind the café.

“I don’t know, but he saved my life,” the racecar answered. “Took a hit for me and told me to get out of here. I don’t understand what’s – ”

“Wait a second, soldier,” Sarge cut into the conversation, squinting at the figure circling through the air. “I recognize that.”

Everyone turned to look at the war veteran. Lightning took a brief moment to look across the faces of his friends and consciously appreciate them. However, in the midst of the chaos, something seemed to be missing.

Or _someone._

“That’s one of Chrysler’s war machines,” Sarge spat in disapproval. “I remember seeing footage of them. Caused almost as much political disruption as Vietnam.”

“And then it went quiet,” Sheriff recalled. “Stupid bit of conflict if you ask me.”

“Guys?” Lightning asked in a stressed tone. “Where’s Sally?”

Silence. Some of them exchanged glances. In the distance, another engine came to life.

“She went out for a drive this mornin’,” Flo answered.

“I gotta find her and warn her,” Lightning muttered, turning toward Cadillac Range. He knew she’d be at Wheel Well.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Doc pulled out and stopped him. “Hold on a second there, hotrod. Ain’t a one of us here that understands what’s goin’ on. Calm down and think. Panicking isn’t gonna help us figure anything out.”

“Doc, I need to find Sally,” Lightning protested. “What if she’s in danger?”

“You’re the one in danger right now, by the sound of it, kid,” Doc scowled. “You said Hicks tried to kill you? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know!” Lightning answered, irritated. “He said I didn’t know who I was, or something like that. Started asking all these weird questions. And then he pulled a gun. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Doc glanced back at the sky above the track. Something wasn’t adding up.

Lightning paused to think. Chick was only after him, that much was clear. If his rival wanted to take out the town, he could have done so already. The others weren’t in danger as long as he distanced himself. Slowly, he backed away from Doc.

“Sarge, I trust you got plenty of munitions?” Lightning asked.

Sarge scoffed. “A surplus hut without self-defense weaponry? What kind of car do you think I am, rookie?”

“Good,” Lightning nodded. “Make sure you’re ready for the worst. Keep the town safe. I can’t stay here and put you all in danger.”

His tires squalled against the freshly paved road as he accelerated past Doc.

“Hey!” Doc lunged after him as if he could stop him. “Get back here!”

Lightning was already gone. As he disappeared around the corner before the courthouse, the rest of Radiator Springs remained motionless in front of Flo’s. They had more questions than they started with, and more worry as well.

“What do we do, Doc?” Flo asked, looking down the road. The morning flow of traffic was coming in the distance.

Doc glanced down the road at the oncoming traffic, and then looked again to the sky. Whatever had been flying around the track was now so high he could barely make it out. He didn’t trust it, not one bit. As the roar of Lightning’s engine faded in the distance, another crept closer to town from out by Willys Butte. For the first time in years, Doc didn’t know what to do. He looked at the residents. He’d never seen them so worried – upset even. He guarded his expression against his own uncertainty.

“Keep a watch out,” he demanded. “Keep the town running, and don’t let on like anything’s happened. Sarge, I want you to be prepared in case that older racecar gets any big ideas. Everyone else, go about your business, but come to me if you notice anything off. We can’t afford to be too cautious.”

“What about McQueen?” Mater asked, bothered.

Doc gazed off in the direction he’d gone. “I dunno, Mater. Say a prayer for him, I guess. Hopefully he’s smart enough to stay in the clear until we can do something.”

“Alright, everyone,” Sheriff commanded everyone’s attention, “do as he says. Get your shops opened up. Be wary, but be hospitable.”

Reluctantly, they did as they were told. Within minutes, the town was busy as ever. Doc kept watch from a bay at Flo’s. Sheriff approached him after pacing a couple times through town.

“I don’t like it, Doc, not at all,” Sheriff said quietly. “We need to do something.”

“I don’t like it either, Sheriff,” Doc returned just as quietly. “But what can we do? We can’t jump into something blind. If Hicks has lost his mind, we’ll jail him. Figure things out from there. Otherwise wait and see what plays out. The kid’s long gone by now. He’s safe.”

“For now,” Sheriff agreed halfheartedly. “I’m still worried about the town. What if there’s a hostage situation?”

“Like I said, we’ll deal with it when the time comes,” Doc repeated. “I know it feels like we’re just sittin’ around doing nothing, but right now it’s our only option.”

Sheriff grunted and turned toward the road again. Around the side of the café, the sound of metal scraping against pavement forced its way into town. Everyone stopped and turned to look at who was making that unholy sound.

Chick rolled slowly into view covered in dirt, cactus shrapnel, and scorch marks. Any rubber that at one time separated his wheels from the ground was simply gone. He stopped at the caution light and saw the entire town staring at him.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get some tires around here?”


	27. Part 3, Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning loses his mind. Strip loses his mind. It's a good time.

Lightning shot up the winding mountainside road, testing his tires’ grip against the pavement as he rounded every turn. All he could see was the image of the gun barrel branded into his memory. That, and of course, Sally.

Without fail, her early morning drives always ended at the Wheel Well overlook. On occasion, he’d even beat her there and they’d spend quiet time together watching the sun rise over the horizon.

He was not about to lose that.

“Sally?” he called as he skidded to a stop in front of the abandoned motel. “Sally!”

He drove through the motel once. She wasn’t at the overlook, and she wasn’t inside the structure. Subtle fear rose in the back of his throat. If she wasn’t in town or at her favorite spot, and he didn’t pass her on the way up the range, where was she? Immediately he thought the worst.

Chick had been gone all night. He hadn’t shown back up until the morning, but was that before or after Sally had gone for her drive? What if he’d done something to her? What if they crossed paths while he was out training and Chick wanted to use her as collateral against him?

Why was Chick trying to kill him in the first place?

Lightning let out a yell in frustration. He could feel the tears coming. He didn’t know what to do or where to go. The more he tried to make sense of the situation, the more unanswered questions he garnered. His town was in trouble, the love of his life was in trouble, and somehow it was because of him. It was because of him, and he didn’t have the slightest clue as to why.

Before Lightning could make the impossible decision between fleeing the area and going back to town to look for Sally, the deafening roar of nearby jet engines rose from beneath the edge of the cliff. Alarmed and stressed to the point of an absolute meltdown, McQueen kicked himself into reverse and backed away. The dark figure ascended from below the drop off and settled onto the flat ground. It shut the engines down. The whirring faded until it stopped completely as Lightning stared.

Sarge had been right. This _was_ one of the Chrysler designed warriors from decades ago. Lightning vaguely remembered them being mentioned in a history lesson long ago. He hadn’t paid attention. He suddenly wished he had. He examined his company suspiciously from a safe distance, if there was such a thing.

He was just a modified car – one of the winged warriors from the muscle car era, except this one had taken that nickname and made a reality of it. Lightning noticed the dented panel and scorch marks on his side from taking a hit.

A hit that had been meant for him.

The fighter peered at him from behind a tinted visor. Lightning felt the urge to look away. He struggled to keep himself from hyperventilating. This car was a killing machine, was it not?

“You alright, kid?”

Lightning jumped at the sound of his voice. He’d forgotten it could speak even though the car had talked to him during the fight. Something about it was eerily familiar, though he was too strung out to pinpoint it. He forced himself to look back at the motionless fighter. Strangely, even through the visor, he saw a look of concern in its eyes.

“I – ” Lightning struggled to find his voice. “What’s - ?”

He had been asked a question. He should answer that question. _Come on, Lightning, cooperate._

“No.”

The winged warrior nodded, as though he didn’t expect otherwise. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What?” Lightning asked in hushed alarm. “What? No. The town. I can’t – Sally – she’s…”

The volume in which he spoke rose consistently although complete sentences continued to evade him. He rolled forward toward the overlook as though he were acting under someone else’s direction and looked down at the town. Visitors were lazily cruising through and starting up the mountainside.

One car was driving down the highway, against the flow of tourist traffic.

“Sal?” Lightning muttered. Where had she come from? He squinted and observed the town below as she reentered. Something green had just rolled out of Luigi’s.

“No. No, no, no,” he mumbled, turning to face the road again.

“Hold on a second,” the Chrysler blocked his path. “You can’t just go back down there.”

That was it. That was all Lightning could handle. He went off with frustration and rage. He was scared.

“What?” he yelled aggressively as the imposing flyer stood his ground. “Why? Tell me what’s going on! Who are you? Why does Chick want me dead? I haven’t done anything to you guys!”

“Lightnin’, calm down and I – ”

“No! Don’t tell me to calm down!” Lightning cut him off. “Sally’s down there. The rest of the town is down there. Chick is on a rampage. I can’t just leave them. I can’t let anything happen…”

At the mention of the Porsche’s name, Lightning’s voice cracked and grew weaker until it ended in a whisper.

Strip watched in empathy as Lightning seemed to dive nose first into a bottomless pit of despair. He didn’t make any sudden moves, but he did turn to check on the progress of the Route 66 travelers. They had maybe five minutes before Wheel Well was covered in other cars.

“What’s going on?” Lightning asked again. “Why did you save me?”

Strip turned back to look at his former racetrack competitor and sighed. “You deserve to know. But not here. Not in the open. Is there somewhere out of sight we can go?”

Lightning noticed the oncoming wave of traffic as well. The last thing he wanted was to have a meltdown in public. No, the last thing he wanted was to be questioned about the resurrected war machine at his side.

Not even that. The last thing he wanted was to be the reason his friends got hurt.

“Yeah.”

Strip hurriedly followed Lightning up the road a ways and veered off through an open area cleft in the mountain. He barely fit with his wingspan, but eventually it opened up again. The path ended in a small clearing at the mouth of a cave. To one side, the mountain rose vertically above them. To the other, a clear view down to the town remained.

“Alright, give it to me while I’m thinking straight,” Lightning ordered. “What don’t I know that – ”

He stopped as something clicked in his restored mind. When the Chrysler had asked him if he was “alright” just moments earlier. That tone. That inflection. It was familiar. He _recognized_ that.

_You alright, kid?_

Lightning shivered as he remembered the day he’d heard that same nuance, less than two weeks earlier.

_What’re you doin’, kid?_

“No,” Lightning turned to look at the fighter head on. “I’m losing my mind.”

Strip knew he’d figured it out. He braced himself and triggered the conversion, returning to his normal self.

Lightning stared in astonishment as the fighter’s wings retracted and folded away. The jet engines tucked themselves neatly out of sight. In seconds, the black metal panels that had protected him from the deadly blast shifted and replaced themselves with familiar Dinoco blue sheet metal. This wasn’t a fighter. This was an exhausted, remorseful looking Piston Cup legend.

Strip faltered a bit as he recovered from the aftereffects of the transformation. Wincing, he looked up at the shell-shocked rookie.

“King?” Lightning asked unevenly, feeling more unsettled than ever.

“Kid, you have no idea what you’re wrapped up in,” Strip told him as he gained his awareness back. “And before you freak out again, give me a minute to explain.”

Lightning remained silent, confused. What had just happened? The King was one of Chrysler’s long forgotten brigade? Was this a trick? The multitude of questions he had amassed in the forefront of his mind. He didn’t know which to ask first.

He watched as his former rival struggled to find himself. To Lightning’s untrained eye, something seemed wrong. The King acted injured.

“Are you okay?” Lightning asked quietly, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah, just –” Strip winced again and uttered a small groan of discomfort as a final wave of vertigo rocked him. “Takes a while to adjust sometimes.”

As the King steadied himself, Lightning noticed an unevenness along his left door where the bomb had exploded against his side. The sight of the damage, no matter how slight, sent a wave of guilt through the rookie. He felt responsible, but again didn’t know why.

Though his first instinct had been to feel betrayed by the sudden reveal, Lightning found himself finding comfort in the King’s presence. He knew he should be more surprised, and it’s not that he wasn’t. But he’d seen enough already – too much, in fact. Any other day the sight of what he’d just witnessed would have troubled him, but after nearly being obliterated by a weaponized Chick, a battle-ready King didn’t seem that far-fetched.

“Alright, first off, thanks for pullin’ yourself together,” Strip said after taking a deep breath. “Lot of cars would lose their senses over that.”

“Mmm,” Lightning mused for a moment, unsure of his own mental state. He felt incredibly fragile, not that he would admit it aloud. “Jury’s still out on that.”

“Second,” Strip ignored the kid’s remark, “Chick’s not gone crazy, much as I hate to admit it. He’s doin’ this because he has to.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, King,” Lightning cut in as respectfully as he could. “He said the same thing. ‘Because he has to.’ That doesn’t tell me anything! Why? Why would he have to? What’s going on?”

“Right, right,” Strip stopped, reminding himself that Lightning genuinely didn’t know a thing. “Let me back up. Kid, you’re smack in the middle of a war you didn’t ask to be in. General Motors built you to take on the mantle of their name in the Detroit War.”

Lightning’s instinctual reaction evoked a single, sharp laugh. That was absurd. Him? A warrior? This whole thing had to be nothing more than a nightmare.

Strip was taken aback at the sudden reaction. Lightning had gone from uselessly panicked, to angrily coherent, to obnoxiously in denial in a matter of mere moments. While Strip wasn’t necessarily surprised, he had hoped for a more reasonable reaction. As the kid began to talk, it became obvious he wasn’t about to receive that. Annoyance faded to unchecked irritation.

“Me?” Lightning asked, raising his voice in obvious disbelief. “Me, Lightning McQueen, GM’s pawn in a war? I don’t think so. I mean, I’m pretty sure I would know if I was built to fight. Look at me! I don’t have any weapons. I’m a racecar! I thought you were, too.”

Though patient by nature, Strip was not in the mood to put up with McQueen’s arrogance. This wasn’t a joking matter. He’d taken a hit for this kid and revealed his identity to him. A little respect, or even an attempt at understanding, would have been appreciated. Strip let out a frustrated growl as he rolled closer to put the kid in his place. There wasn’t time to be gentle. This wasn’t a time for calm coercion. The heat of battle had not yet cooled, and it didn’t appear that it would any time soon.

“Do you think I’m jokin’ with you?” Strip shouted in return. “Do you honestly think that this whole mornin’ has been nothin’ but a joke?”

Lightning flinched and rolled backward. He’d never heard the King yell before. Heck, he’d never seen the King be angry in the least. This car was known for being the most relaxed and collected racer on the track. Realizing his mistake, Lightning cursed himself for being so unthinkingly brash. He grew conscious that his remark had been nothing more than an inconsiderate defense mechanism.

He remembered how genuinely close he’d been to death less than half an hour ago, how helpless he’d been. That same plane that took that hit was the racer sitting in front of him. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the King’s words were the first that had made sense thus far.

“Do you think that I wanted this?” Strip continued without remorse. “I dare you to look me in the eyes and tell me you think I wanted any part of this. Do you know what it’s like to be torn apart against your will as a kid and put back together into somethin’ built to kill for someone else? Do you? No. You don’t.”

Lightning’s gaze fell to the ground in embarrassment. “I’m – ”

“Do you know what it’s like to watch innocent cars die at the will of some corporate entity? Do you know what it’s like to be injured to the point you genuinely wish death would just take you instead, just so you won’t have to fight anymore? Look at me. Look at me, Lightnin’. I didn’t sign up for this. Everyone that I watched die didn’t either. Don’t you _dare_ make this war out like it’s not real, kid, ‘cause it is. Whether you like it or not, you’re right in the middle of it.”

Realizing his rebuke had turned into something much more personal than he had intended, Strip took a second to let silence settle between them. Lightning’s ignorant remark was nothing but a thoughtless, instinctive reaction without any premeditation. The expression on the kid’s face now looked more like a whipped dog. The point had been made.

“Chick has been told he has to kill you.” Strip continued in a slightly quieter but equally stern voice. “In case you ain’t figured it out yet, he’s the Grand National that defected to fight for Ford back in the eighties. GM built you to be naïve in the hopes that you’d keep yourself out of harm’s way. Lot of good that did.”

“I’m sorry,” Lightning whispered, forcing himself to man up and look the King in the eyes. “Really. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have lost my nerve.”

Strip forced himself to take a moment and calm down. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone off on the young racer like that. Perhaps, but he didn’t regret it. Sometimes the quickest shortcuts are the roughest.

“Look, Lightnin’, I know how this sounds to you,” Strip said in a friendlier, but perhaps more grave tone. “I know how scared you are. You didn’t ask for this. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. But I need you to trust me. I need you to help me end this.”

Lightning glanced back down the mountain range toward Radiator Springs. There were even more cars down there, and something seemed to be going in the center of town. A congregation of cars surrounded a couple others, but it was too far away to tell who was where. His inherent worry grew again, but this time he faced it thoughtfully. If he really was a part of this, maybe there was something he could do to help.

“What can I do?” Lightning asked as Strip turned to observe the town below. “Chick’s armed. I can’t fly like you. I literally can’t do anything except be a burden. And I _still_ have a million questions.”

“I’ll answer them later,” Strip promised, “once we get you in the clear. But first we need to get Chick out of town and away from the civilians.”

“How?” McQueen inquired. “I saw you shoot at him. Your bullets bounced right off. He’s indestructible.”

“I didn’t say kill him. I said get him away from town.”

“But isn’t that – ”

Lightning stopped. He knew about the war. He knew that the winner was the last manufacturer standing with living competitors. As it stood, the three racers represented all three manufacturers. Lightning backed up and eyed the King suspiciously.

“Wait a minute…” he said. “You’re a Mopar. I’m GM. Doesn’t that mean…?”

Strip turned to look at the rookie, flatly annoyed. “How well do you know me, kid? Do you honestly think I’d come after you, after all you’ve done for me? I’m not a murderer. We’re on the same side these days, anyway. You should watch the news every now and then.”

“It’s been a long day,” Lightning excused his query, knowing full well the sun had only been up for an hour at most. “I think you can forgive my suspicions.”

“Yeah, alright. Anyway,” Strip turned back to look at the town, “I don’t know what’s goin’ on down there, but I doubt it’s good. We need to move.”

“Right,” Lightning agreed hesitantly. “But what are we gonna do?”

Strip hesitated for a moment, gauging the risk of his haphazard, half-formed plan. It would work. It would have to.

“Hope you got plenty of gas left,” he told McQueen. “You might have to outrun him for a while.”

Lightning frowned. “Really? You’ve got all that tech and you’re wanting me to act as bait? _Really?_ ”

“Got a better idea?”

Silence.

“Look, I know you can outrun him. I won’t let him touch you if you can just stay far enough ahead.” Strip tried to convince him. “Come on, kid, I need you to trust me.”

Lightning still didn’t look so sure, but then he gazed at the disruption in town again. “Alright.”

Strip nodded in approval. _Finally_. “Just keep focused and don’t panic. Use that confidence you do out on the track. You’ll be fine, I pro– ”

A familiar roar faded in across the desert and caught his attention. Something moved over the horizon.

Lightning heard it too. It was the same sound he’d heard earlier right before Chick attacked. He looked at the King and found him smiling.

“Get movin’, boy. This’ll be easier than I thought.”


	28. Part 3, Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally sure doesn't approve of Chick in her town, and she's gonna do something about it.

“Just come along quietly and there won’t be no trouble,” Sheriff said in a stern tone. “Just until we clear things up.”

Chick sat at the edge of the road on a fresh set of tires, clearly not in the mood for a lecture. Several out of towners drove past Luigi’s storefront, eyeing the racecar and officer. Chick contemplated his options. He didn’t like any of them.

“I swear, officer, come on,” Chick decided to take the safer, albeit more embarrassing route by way of an unbelievable excuse that would at most buy him more time. “I don’t know anything about any gunshots. I slipped off that poor excuse of a track and into the cactus. Shredded my tires like a moron. End of story. That was probably the noise you heard.”

“We ain’t as dumb as you think we are,” Sheriff muttered with a glowering edge to his voice.

“If you’re innocent, nothin’ lost to you, right?” Doc asked, arriving and backing his longtime friend.

Chick muttered something under his breath. He looked around. If he gunned it back toward the interstate, he’d be home free in moments, or at least, out of the grasp of this stubborn old police cruiser. But he knew he’d never really make it that far. He knew he wasn’t ever truly alone. One wrong move and he _knew_ he’d lose the only thing he ever had control over – himself.

_What if - ?_ He had an idea. He knew they’d never trust him, not when they had that hotshot rookie they cared so much about. But how much did they really care?

“Alright, you got me,” Chick shrugged placidly. “Was just trying to do this little po-dunk town a favor.”

“Is that so?” Sheriff wasn’t having it.

* * *

Sally noticed the fuss before she turned the corner in front of the courthouse. She slowed and came to a hesitant halt next to Stanley’s statue. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move.

Parked in the dark shadows of the depths of the courthouse, Red sat quivering. Sally turned to look at her quiet friend. For the first time since she’d rolled into town, she saw him express something other than his usual content joy or troubled sadness. Red looked _furious_.

“Red?” Sally asked, driving into the courthouse bay. “Red, what’s wrong?”

His expression faltered into something more concerned for a moment as she approached him. Sally stopped. That wasn’t just anger. That was a look of fear. If there was one thing about Red that she knew for a fact, it was that underneath his soft, loving surface he was absolutely fearless.

He pointed toward the crowd of cars in the middle of town. Sally looked closer. Doc and Sheriff had Hicks cornered in front of Luigi’s store. The two Italians hovered watchfully in the doorway of their business, clearly bothered. Across the street, Ramone eyed the situation doubtfully. Ahead on down the street, Sarge paced up and down his lawn, openly armed and never letting his eyes drift from the scene. Everyone else simply looked worried.

“What’d I miss?” Sally asked Red again. “What’s going on over there?”

Red just pointed toward Chick again.

“Hmm. Alright,” she concluded. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

Red lurched forward as though to block her from leaving. Startled, Sally stopped. Red shook himself and let out a small whimpering noise. _Don’t go._ He clearly knew something she didn’t.

“Look, Red,” Sally gestured outside, “you could cut that tension with a knife. I gotta make sure the town stays a friendly, welcoming place for travelers. Right now? That stand-off’s not very inviting.”

Red looked past her and scowled again. Sally turned to go investigate. He followed her closely.

At first, she skirted the crowd and stopped off at Flo’s. As a lawyer, Sally knew better than to enter into anything without information at her disposal. Once she had that, she could do anything.

“Hey there, Mater,” she greeted the forlorn tow truck gently. “What’s all the fuss?”

Mater looked up at her and bit his lip. His frazzled mind couldn’t stop thinking about how rattled his best friend had been earlier. Usually quick to speak, Mater had to stop and think about his answer. He still wasn’t sure what the deal was.

“McQueen’s in trouble, Miss Sally,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” she replied cautiously, looking for any behavioral hints that would clue her into a deeper meaning. “That’s not necessarily new. What kind of trouble?”

Mater opened his mouth to answer, but Flo came around from the V8’s kitchen and interrupted. Sally had never seen Flo look so serious.

“Hey there, sugar, where you been?” she asked.

Sally furrowed her brow, anxious at the tension in Flo’s voice. “Uh, just took a drive. Like usual. Went to check out Taillight Caverns this morning. Preparing for this year’s – ”

The familiar roar of a racing engine faded in across the desert, catching Sally’s full attention. Hadn’t her Stickers been out at the track earlier? What was he doing coming from out toward Wheel Well?

“There’s been an incident,” Flo whispered. “We all heard gunfire this mornin’. Lightnin’ came drivin’ into town like a maniac claimin’ that poor excuse for a racer over there tried to kill him. Then he took off again.”

“What?” Sally asked, alarmed. Surely she hadn’t heard Flo right. Had she?

“Yeah, and on top of that,” Mater added on, “there was this flyin’ thing in the sky earlier that Sarge said was a fighter for that Detroit War a long time ago.”

“Mm hm,” Flo agreed. “We don’t know anything except that Buick over there’s actin’ awful suspicious. Rolled into town a bit ago, no tires and burn marks all over him.”

Sally turned to look at the cornered racer. The moment Chick rolled into town a red flag had started waving around her conscience. Even from across the intersection, she could see he was trying to talk his way out of something. Lucky for him, she knew exactly how to talk her way _in_ to anything.

“Hmm,” Sally frowned. “Alright then. Let’s see how well he stands up to the law.”

“Wait, hun, I don’t think – ”

She had already driven away.

* * *

In the air once again, Strip kept an eye on Lightning as he hurtled down the road toward the town. Watching the kid take those corners like he was, one would think he had a record to beat.

Static crackled to life. A long-lost radio connection solidified itself once more.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Strip said, turning toward the inbound flier.

“You could have told me! You know, a heads-up or something. Anything,” Izzy replied. “How was I supposed to know you’d taken off on your own? You leave it to your wife to call me? You’re a terrible husband.”

“Lynda called you?”

“Of course she did! How else would I know you were out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Is she alright?”

“Worried as heck, but yeah, I guess she’s fine. You owe her an apology when we’re done here, though. Taking off like you did.”

“Wait, but she – ”

Strip realized that his farewell pep talk hadn’t been entirely as transparent as he’d thought. He’d been too preoccupied to see it at the time, but Lynda had told him what he needed to hear for his own sake, not what she really felt. He should have known better. He knew her too well.

“Yeah, alright,” he sighed. “I’ll add that to my list of things to make up for.”

“So fill me in on what I missed,” Izzy ordered as she joined him, circling wide, high above the town.

“Well, Hicks tried to kill the kid this mornin’,” Strip informed her. “I got him out of that one. Told him what was goin’ on. I think he’s takin’ it pretty well, all things considered. I told him he needs to lure Chick out of town so we can do somethin’ about him. That’s what he’s doin’ now.”

“Hmm, alright,” she approved, watching the red racer hurtle toward the meager town below. “Guess he’s not as useless as I thought. When in doubt, use him as bait. Not bad.”

“We need a plan, Izzy,” Strip told her, feeling the urgency of the situation set in. “I only got as far as to how to get Hicks out of town. I don’t know what to do after that.”

“We kill him,” she replied shortly, as though the answer were obvious. “We’ve waited over thirty years for this, Strip. We end this thing today.”

Strip held his silence. Thirty-five years ago, he wouldn’t have argued. Back then, that was all he knew. Winning meant freedom. Now? Now, all winning meant was that someone else had to lose.

“Come on,” he said, beginning into a descent toward the town. “He’s almost there. We need to be close enough to intervene if somethin’ happens.”

Izzy followed.

* * *

The steady stream of visitors parted, making way as Lightning rolled into town. He didn’t pay them any mind. He couldn’t. It took every last bit of mental bandwidth he had to keep himself together.

_Just play it cool, Lightning. He doesn’t know you know. Well, he might. He’ll know the minute I approach him, oh for the love of –_

“McQueen! There you are, I’ve been lookin’ all over for you.”

Chick’s voice cut through the small crowd that had collected at the intersection. Everyone turned to look at Lightning. He hesitated as the townsfolk greeted him with a strange array of emotion. Some were scared, others suspicious, and yet others seemed angry. Right there in the middle of it all, Chick sat relaxed and smug. Sally glared at him, clearly annoyed.

“Stickers, what on earth is going on?” she prompted.

He felt a wave of relief wash over him. She was okay. It didn’t matter how or why she’d eluded him earlier. She was fine.

But she was also parked the closest to Chick. Lightning pushed forward. If there was any one thing he loved more than his own life, it was hers. He refused to put that in danger.

“I was hoping to get some answers myself,” he said in as confident of a voice as he could muster.

Chick observed as Lightning parked between him and that annoyingly clever Porsche. Oh, what he would have done to know McQueen’s preference for her beforehand.

“Surprised you came back, kid,” Chick sounded impressed.

“Is there something we should know?” Sally asked her boyfriend. “This guy keeps rambling on about conspiracy theories and how you’re a danger to the town.”

“Yeah, well, I think my friend Chick here’s just a little disoriented from his big win,” Lightning shrugged. “Thinks he’s some hot shot legend now or something. Ain’t that right, Chick?”

Chick looked as puzzled as those around him. What was McQueen up to? For once, he didn’t have anything to say in return. Did Lightning really think he could beat him at his own game?

The townsfolk looked to McQueen for answers. It seemed like just minutes ago, he was falling all over himself, scared witless. Hadn’t he just told them that Chick tried to murder him? Yet here he was, suave and composed as ever, insulting the Buick to his face.

Lightning continued. “But he knows he didn’t win fair and square. And that bothers you, doesn’t it, Chick? It burns you to know you’re not good enough to beat me. If you can’t beat the competition, eliminate it, right? Or at least everything they love.”

_Lightning what the heck are you doing? This is not you. You are not equipped to handle this. He is going to kill you in the middle of your hometown. You’re an idiot. You should turn and run._

_But you need to protect them. They trust you. You need that._

“Stickers, you’re not making any sense,” Sally added, feeling her faith in his competence decline. “Why make such a big fuss over a race? It’s over. It’s not a big deal. Certainly not big enough to _kill_ over.”

“Well, I guess that’s _part_ of it,” Chick admitted. “Why not kill two birds with one stone?”

Chick looked around. This was not going according to plan. He should have been leaving, hightailing his way back to Detroit right then having successfully completed his mission, not surrounded by angry hillbillies. Did McQueen know who he was? Why else would he come back? Chick looked up at the sky. His confidence wavered.

“I’d be careful with that phrase, Chick,” Lightning said as he, too, noticed his backup circling the sky above. “Because I have two birds to back me up, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more than a stone to stop them.”

He spoke so that only the nearby residents of Radiator Springs could hear him. The truth was out. This wasn’t about that tiebreaker race. It couldn’t have had less to do with it. This wasn’t sport. This was war.

Lightning didn’t care if the town knew the truth – or at least what he knew of the truth. He trusted them, but he decided it best that the travelers remain naïve. He didn’t want the world to know that he was a key in the Detroit War, and he’d bet money that the King and Chick would agree with him. When it came down to it, all three of them had too much to lose.

Chick’s reaction affirmed this. He frowned at the rookie as the others took in the sight of the Chryslers in the sky above them.

“So now you know,” Chick deduced. “You know how helpless you are. You don’t stand a chance.”

Lightning shrugged. “Maybe not, but I don’t think my friends up there will take too kindly to you if you decide to do something. And I also think you wouldn’t dare do anything in public, either. We’re both too high profile for that.”

Chick growled in frustration. “They’re using you, you know. You can’t trust them. They’re not of the same manufacture as you. This isn’t something we can take sides in.”

“Except that we have,” Lightning corrected him. “You know about the alliance, plus I consider one of them a real friend. I may not have the weapons you do, but you’re alone Chick. No one’s gonna come to help you in the end.”

A few seconds of silence settled over the crowd as the business of the day carried on behind them. Sally was the first to speak.

“Stickers, is this true?” she whispered to him. “You’re talking about the Detroit War, right? You’re a part of that? That’s impossible. You can’t fight.”

Hearing the pain in her voice, he turned to address her solemnly.

“I didn’t know, Sal,” he explained. “Had no idea. They’ve been keeping me in the dark on purpose, apparently. But it makes sense – this whole situation. Chick’s not a good sport by any means, but he wouldn’t kill out of his own free will.”

They both glanced at Chick. The Buick seemed to be having some sort of internal crisis. He’d look around spastically before settling his attention on himself, angrily baring his teeth. Then he’d do it again, increasingly angrily. Something was wrong.

Sally suddenly felt extremely overprotective of Lightning, and of her town. “I still don’t understand how all this came to be. I need more information.”

“I was out training this morning,” Lightning briefly explained. “Chick came out and pulled a gun. One of the Chrysler guys intervened and got me out. He explained what was going on. GM built me as their stand in and basically hoped I’d stay out of the way until Chrysler and Ford finished each other, I think. But that didn’t work. Chrysler’s trying to help me.”

“How do you know you can trust them?” she asked. “If this is war, you can’t trust anyone. It could be a trap!”

Lightning looked up again. The King and his plus one were even closer to the ground than before.

“I can’t tell you that, not right now,” he said. “But I need you to trust me. I trust them.”

Lightning looked to Doc and Sheriff while Chick continued to spaz out. He sighed.

“Look, I know this sounds crazy, but – ”

“What can we do to help?” Doc interrupted. “We can’t just sit here with you in the line of fire.”

Doc hated it. He hated Chick and he hated seeing his mentee scared for his life. Most of all, he hated that the circumstances made sense.

In years past, he’d kept tabs on the scuffle in Detroit. He remembered the tragedy of that November night back in the eighties. He remembered Chrysler’s statement, begging for Ford to let them be, and how pathetic it had sounded. What had been even more ludicrous was Ford’s response, denying them the right to surrender.

All the while, General Motors had remained dormant. They never responded to the attack on the Renaissance Center. In fact, the first motion GM had made in the war had been the alliance with Chrysler, just earlier that year right before Lightning came onto the scene.

It all made perfect sense and Doc was angry.

Lightning looked at Chick. The green racer glared back at him as he regained whatever composure he’d lost moments before.

“Keep the town running, Doc,” Lightning answered. “This isn’t your fight.”

“It ain’t yours either, kid, I – ”

“Come on, Chick,” Lightning turned his back to his mentor. “You wanna get this over with? Let’s go. Settle it like racers. If you can catch me, go ahead and do what you have to.”

Chick scoffed, but followed it up with a good chuckle. “Your loss, man. Nice knowin’ you.”

“Lightning, wait, let’s be reasonable and – ”

The sound of his engine drowned out Sally’s pleading voice as he spun around and headed toward the interstate. Before anyone else could react, Chick followed. Within seconds, they were gone.


	29. Part 3, Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chick done went and messed with the wrong cars.

“I think that’s our signal to go,” Izzy said as the two racers took off through the desert.

Strip watched as Lightning went offroad. “He’s drawin’ him away from the road. Smart.”

“If he’s hoping to get far, he’s going the wrong way,” Izzy pointed out. “There’s nothing but a canyon wall over there.”

It was true. McQueen had veered off Route 66 to the left. At the rate he was going, he’d reach that vertical wall of rock in no time at all.

As soon as the racers couldn’t be seen from the highway, Chick bared a third weapon, a simple machine gun, from his rear quarters. That firearm wouldn’t so much as dent the Chrysler custom armor, but Lightning might as well have been dressed in tissue paper. Those bullets would tear him apart.

“I’ll take Chick out,” Izzy said. “You go make sure Lightning stays safe.”

They dove toward the ground. Izzy sprayed Chick with a barrage of bullets, catching his attention. He slowed. Lightning heard the commotion behind him and sped up. Strip followed him.

“By the manufa- how many guns does this guy have?” Izzy asked.

Strip looked back as he passed Chick. Another missile launcher? His vision went black for a split second. In the next moment, he was sitting next to Rick in a falling building, staring into the void of a severed hallway. The missiles. They weren’t built to take out cars. They were meant to level entire _buildings._ Strip snapped back to reality.

“Take it out before he – ”

_Swoosh._

Strip saw it coming from behind him. He didn’t think, not in the least. Lightning was in front of him, and the missile was coming up from behind, too quick to second guess. He dove into its path.

He heard a scream and an explosion behind him. The missile never touched him, but the shockwave it emitted threw him ahead of Lightning. Strip struggled to regain flight control. He was seconds away from leveling out when the ground caught up to him.

Thirty-plus years of racing experience came to a head as he hit the dirt tires first, skidding toward the rock wall at incredibly high speed. The difference was that in all that time, not once had he had wings to deal with. They sliced through bushes and cacti, effectively slowing him down to a point where his brakes finally began to work. Still, he couldn’t quite stop before hitting the canyon wall. He plowed into a pile of large rocks at nearly forty miles an hour.

“You idiot!” Izzy screamed over her radio. “What was that?”

Strip moaned and shook himself, backing away from the site of impact. He looked down at himself. _Huh_. Just scratches? A couple of dents? Other than being a little shaken, he felt fine. What did Rick make this stuff out of?

“Uh, yeah,” Strip responded as he collected himself. “Stupid, I guess.”

“You guess? Oh, you better pray I never need to blackmail you to your wife,” Izzy threatened. “You’re lucky I hit that thing.”

Strip could hear straight through her anger. That was how she disguised the fact that she was scared. As he realized what happened, he felt guilty. Lynda had specifically told him not to do that. _Pull yourself together._

Lightning skidded to a stop next to him with a wild look in his eyes. Not so far away, Chick had his sights on Izzy, who was making him dance. She dropped a missile on him. It did nothing but blow him off to the side.

“Hey, are you okay?” Lightning asked as Strip moved away from the rock pile.

“Yeah, get behind me,” Strip ordered.

“What was that?” the rookie asked, doing as he was told. “I _felt_ that.”

“Somethin’ that could take out a whole lot more than just you,” Strip answered begrudgingly, watching the duel.

Izzy dodged an array of bullets that Chick fired up at her. The _tng_ of a few strays bounced off her wings. She dropped another missile. Chick evaded it and drove toward Lightning as though Strip weren’t there. Strip raised his guns and prepared a few missiles for launch as the Buick’s silhouette darkened against a fiery explosion in the background. He stood his ground, prepared to do anything that proved necessary.

Chick fired a spray of bullets in their direction. Strip lowered and angled himself to intercept them. Sparks flew with every strike. Lightning cowered behind him. One shot kicked up some dirt not five inches from the rookie’s front left wheel. Strip fired back.

Izzy circled around and landed at a right angle to their rival, realizing that this battle was better suited for the ground, and charged. Chick made the most of his time. At some point between their earlier battle and that moment, he had unjammed his smaller missile launcher. He took aim.

Strip saw a flash of light before becoming another victim of one of Ford’s explosives. The hit bathed him in a brief wash of fire as it knocked him backward into Lightning. Something broke. Metal clanged against the ground. He tried not to show his pain. He failed.

Chick’s eyes widened. His weapons reflexively dropped out of disbelief. Was he seeing things? The black rear quarter panel that he’d just blown off lay smoldering on the ground, but underneath it? That familiar striking blue paint with bold-faced, white “DINOCO” sprawled across it. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t, but he knew that paint better than anything. He’d coveted it. He’d chased it too many times.

Izzy let out a battle cry and rammed straight into Chick’s side, sending him flying up against the same crumbling pile of rocks Strip had hit earlier, several yards away. Ignoring the negligible damage to her front from the impact, she went to immobilize him.

“Oh my gosh, King are you - ?” Lightning pulled himself out from being sandwiched between the veteran and a rock, and turned to look at his makeshift bodyguard.

Lightning’s gaze settled on the torn panel laying on the ground. He noticed the bared Dinoco logo and flinched. The front edge of the word had scorch marks emblazoned into it, radiating from the smoking starburst pattern of crumpled panels in front of it. One more hit and they’d disintegrate as well.

Strip glanced at Lightning through the throbbing pains that rocked the left side of his body. All he saw were scratches on the racer’s custom red paint. That was a relief.

“I’m gettin’ real sick and tired of this,” Strip muttered, turning back toward Chick.

Lightning wanted to do something, anything to assist and pull his own weight. Hadn’t the King been through enough already?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chick yelled as Izzy bore down on him a second time. “Hold on just a – ow!”

Izzy rammed into him and pinned him against the rock. He let out a yelp as she pulled out one of her firearms and shoved the barrel through an open gap in his fender where a weapon had once been.

“Wait, Iz, wait,” Strip called, driving a little closer to her.

“What?” she asked as though she were out of breath. “Why?”

Strip stared at the ground in front of him and frowned. None of this felt right. He knew Chick had been the one to kill the rest of the brigade all those years ago. He knew Chick led those Mustangs to their deaths. This was all fact, and such acts were more than deserving of a death sentence punishment. But it wasn’t his place to decide that. He lost his want for revenge a long time ago. What passed was past.

“Just, hold off a second, okay?” he asked her. “There’s gotta be some other way.”

“By the – it really is you,” Chick remarked dejectedly. “After all this time?”

Izzy growled in frustration and jabbed Chick again. He winced and fell silent. It was odd to see him refuse to put up a struggle. Lightning drove out from behind Strip to get a better view of the situation.

“Strip, I swear if you’re having second thoughts, this is not the time,” Izzy warned him in a grave voice.

She pressed the tip of her weapon even harder against Chick’s sub-frame. He squeaked. Strip saw the fear in his eyes. He knew he could never forgive Chick – not for the deaths he witnessed, not for the countless wrecks, none of that. He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to. But death wasn’t the answer either.

“I’m going to give you to the count of ten to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull this trigger and end it all right now,” Izzy raised her quivering voice. “He killed our family. I watched them crash and burn – _you_ watched them, too. We’re all that’s left because of _him_. He took away everything we had, Strip, don’t forget that. He killed our family. He killed your mother!”

Izzy was screaming by the end of her tirade. Strip looked up at the mention of Stacey and saw the tears in his sister’s eyes. He felt a different kind of ache course through him.

“What?” he heard Lightning whisper beside him incredulously.

Chick avoided eye contact with everyone, deep in confused thought. He’d done what?

Strip swallowed his rising emotions and looked at Izzy. He shook himself as though he had no answer.

“We can’t bring them back, Iz,” he said quietly. “They’re gone.”

Shaking, Izzy rocked her mind for a comeback. She blinked away her tears and reluctantly retracted her weapon a few inches. She considered pulling the trigger anyway. Chick’s death would be just another mark on her record. She wasn’t innocent. She’d killed before. It haunted her, but she knew she was capable of dealing with the consequences. She did every day. It would be a small price to pay to keep the small remainder of her family safe. It was all she had left.

Strip sighed and considered the options. He didn’t know what to do. He was tired, mentally and physically. This had all gone on for far too long.

“Then what do you propose we do?” Izzy asked without wavering. “There’s no other option.”

“Then we make one,” he answered after a thoughtful pause. “Let’s take this back where it started. Finish it there.”

“Detroit?”

Chick uttered a distressed grunt and shifted around a little. Izzy returned her full attention to him and tightened her hold. He winced and settled uneasily as three pairs of untrusting eyes settled on him.

“Uh,” he spoke out in an uneasy tone, “can I – can I say something? Hm?”

He paused for a moment. No one moved or otherwise gave him inclination to carry on.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he continued slowly, casting an apprehensive glance at Izzy. “Just gonna throw this out there – that’s a bad idea.”

“Oh, really?” Izzy aggressively asked. “Kinda makes me wanna do it.”

“No, no, no,” Chick defended quickly. “Lemme finish. We all go back to that dilapidated hell-hole of a city, we all die.”

“We? Or just you?” Izzy antagonized. “Guess it doesn’t much matter either way, does it?”

Chick exhaled in aggravation. “Listen, I don’t wanna die. I’m guessing you all probably don’t wanna die. Why don’t we just all agree to – ”

“Spit it out, Chick,” Lightning spoke up, driving around Strip’s left wing and into the open. “What do you know that we don’t? Why are you so scared?”

The three older cars looked at the red racer with surprise. As uninformed as he was, Lightning looked every bit as determined as the rest of them. He scowled at his rival and continued questioning him.

“I find it a little hard to believe you’re looking for a truce,” Lightning kept on. “An hour ago you were intent on killing me. Didn’t seem to bother you at all.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I knew I had actual competition and the, uh, consequences that came with that,” Chick grumbled. “Like I said, nothin’ personal, kid.”

“I think this is all a bit personal, these days,” Izzy hissed, never easing the pressure on him. “Now why don’t you answer the kid’s questions?”

“Hey, I didn’t know about – ” Chick glanced between the two Chryslers and paused. He shook himself and changed his train of thought. “Alright. You wanna know what freaks me out? I’ll tell you. Those CEOs up there are psychopaths. All of ‘em. I think it’s safe to say they’ve all made us do stuff we didn’t wanna do. Well, except maybe you, Rook. But I wanna stay as far away as I can.”

“Ha!” Izzy exclaimed. “You signed up for this, Chick. You and you alone. You’re the only one here that ever wanted to fight. Don’t act like you’re innocent. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. That’s what you wanted, right? The glory?”

Chick looked at her as if she were stupid. His disbelief turned to an angry scowl that she gladly returned. He looked toward Strip, who sat silently, watching.

“Who is this girl?” he asked heatedly, but broke into a rant before an answer could be given. “Do you guys honestly think I wanted to fight? _Me?_ I wanted to race! I was looking for a sponsor and good ol’ head honcho Stephen found me and offered me a deal. He offered me a one-way ticket into the Piston Cup if I’d do a little ‘house cleaning’ for him, as he called it. He said it was target practice. Just a bunch of mindless machines. I didn’t know!”

Chick paused his tirade and took a couple labored breaths. He looked around. He was greeted with nothing but blank stares.

“Come on, I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“Mm-hm.” Izzy wasn’t convinced. “I guess you didn’t know about those Mustangs either, did you?”

“They were wired to do what I wanted!” Chick protested desperately. “I was told they were life model decoys, something to stand in for actual soldiers. Just robots!  I didn’t know they were alive until they started resisting in the middle of the attack. Why do you think I ran? I didn’t want any part of _that_.”

He rested a moment to let it sink in. Strip and Izzy shared a glance. They were hesitant to believe him, but it wouldn’t be that far of a stretch for Chick to be telling the truth. It lined up. It didn’t excuse his actions, not in the least, but it did explain them.

“Look, you want to know what I’m scared of?” Chick asked. “Stephen. Everything he’s ever done to me – everything he’s ever _told_ me – has been twisted. You kill me here and now, he’ll find someone else to fight for him. He doesn’t follow the rules.”

“Then I guess we take you back,” Izzy muttered. “We’ll end this thing before he has the chance to replace you. I’m still prepared to end you, boy. That was no excuse for what you did.”

“Listen, woman,” Chick growled at her. “I’m not looking for redemption. My demons and I go _way_ back. I just want my freedom again. This isn’t – ”

His voice caught and all emotion drained from his face. He stared blankly into the middle distance to the right of Lightning. A shudder ran through him as his deck lid split apart to reveal another medium-sized rocket launcher. It caught and snagged against an invisible force. Chick grimaced and worked his mouth as though he couldn’t speak.

“Not… me,” he managed to get out as the weapon rotated itself toward Lightning. “This… not me!”

Strip lunged forward as the safety mechanism flipped off.

Izzy renewed her aim and pulled the trigger.


	30. Part 3, Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning takes an opportunity to say goodbye.

Chick’s weapon fell to the ground harmlessly, sheared from its base with a single well-aimed shot. Izzy shoved it away and fired another shot to detonate the loaded ammunition. The ground tremored as the fireball dissipated to reveal the shattered remnants of the launcher. For a moment, the only sound was the echoes of the explosion off the canyon wall and the hills in the distance.

Then Chick tried to move. Flustered, Izzy snapped her attention back to him. Before the Buick – or whoever was controlling him – could make sense of what happened she whipped out an instrument that looked like a tuning fork and pressed it against his side. He yelled as arcs of electricity passed from the device to his body, but quickly fell silent and still.

Lightning, having taken shelter, peered out from behind Strip’s wing. The scent of fresh ozone wafted through the air, reminiscent of an electrical fire.

“Is he dead?” McQueen asked timidly.

“Unfortunately, no,” Izzy grumbled, putting the tool away. “But he’s not waking up any time soon either.”

“Is he really wired?” Strip asked his sister, though he was confident of the answer.

“Hmm.” She poked around underneath Chick’s exposed paneling with the barrel of her gun. “Yep. Same as what we’ve seen before. They must have upped the range on their remote guidance system, though. For someone to have control over him way out here? I gotta say, that’s impressive.”

“So he’s _not_ trying to kill me?” Lightning asked. “It’s someone else?”

“Well, that time, anyway,” Strip answered. “Stephen must have been listening in, figured out he wasn’t gonna fight back anymore.”

Lightning sat silently for a moment, considering it. Chick’s actions finally made sense to him, to a sickening degree. In order to protect himself and prevent being controlled by the Ford CEO, Chick was willing to kill. He didn’t necessarily want to, but that seemed the lesser of two evils from his perspective. Chick held a resentment toward Stephen unlike anything he could imagine. Combine that with selfish ambition and anything would be better than handing himself over to the likes of a lunatic again.

“Alright, yeah, so what now?” Izzy asked, turning toward her brother. “You convinced me not to kill him. What do we do with him now?”

Strip shrugged. “Call up one of the corporate jets. Get someone down here to pick us up and take us back. Then we’ll see if Rick can’t unwire him. We’ll figure it out from there.”

Izzy sighed and looked at Chick’s motionless form with disgust. “I never thought I’d see the day when I didn’t pull the trigger. All this time and…”

She looked back to Strip. “Why? Why do you care what happens to him? After everything he’s done?”

“I don’t,” he answered as honestly as he could. “If I’m bein’ truthful here, I’d care less how he lives his life. That ain’t none of my business. But this, this is bigger than all of us. Whether we like it or not, we’re the only ones that can do somethin’ about it. I’m just tryin’ to do the right thing. That’s all.”

Izzy looked down at the ground and gave an unconvincing half smile. “You know, sometimes I miss the good ol’ days. Everything seemed so black and white back then.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Strip said calmly. “We’ll find our way out.”

She nodded and looked at Lightning. “You did good, kiddo. Thanks for the help.”

“Ah, well,” Lightning shrugged it off. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You led him out of town and then stayed out of the way,” she told him. “That’s more than I was hoping for, at least on such short notice. You’ve had a heck of a day.”

“Yeah, but…” he hesitated. “Well, I guess it’s not over yet, is it?”

Lightning watched as the Chryslers shared a glance, and second-guessed himself.

“I’m coming too, right? To Detroit?”

Izzy looked to Strip. “Is he?”

Strip thought about it. “I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of draggin’ you up there. We don’t know what we’re gonna have to deal with. But if we leave you here, we can’t keep an eye on you, and that opens up too much room for somethin’ bad to happen. What do you wanna do, kid?”

“I want to help,” he answered without hesitation. “I have to do _something_. I won’t feel right just staying here while you guys go do all the work.”

Lightning looked to his former competitor. “Come on, King, you saved my life. Twice! I owe you.”

Strip shook himself. “You don’t owe me anythin’, Lightnin’. I think we’re even now.”

While he begged to differ, Lightning didn’t argue. He instead tried to think of a better reason to convince them to let him go. But what could he do? He felt like a burden already. Of what more use would he be in Detroit?

“Alright,” Izzy said, taking it upon herself to make the executive decision. “You can come. Just do what we tell you, okay? If we get caught up in another fight, we won’t have room for error.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lightning replied dutifully.

“Well, I guess I’ll go see if I can find a signal out here,” she stated, backing up to get a better view of their surroundings. “I’ll call for a plane. Hopefully there’s one relatively close. Keep an eye on this guy, will you? Radio me if he starts to wake up. He shouldn’t, but I’m not gonna risk it.”

She turned, spooled her engines, and took off for higher elevation. As she faded out of sight, Lightning looked to his elder for guidance.

“So, can I get some answers now?” McQueen asked.

“Yeah,” Strip responded, taking a deep breath to try to relax. For the moment, they were safe. “But first, you might wanna go let your friends know you’re alright.  Let ‘em know where you’re goin’. We got a long flight back to Michigan. I’ll answer your questions then.”

Lightning gazed past his company back toward the town. He’d just ran off and left them with half an explanation – the only half of an explanation he still had.

“Yeah, I should do that,” he agreed absentmindedly. “But what will I tell them?”

“Tell ‘em the truth if you have to,” Strip told him. “Just do me a favor and don’t mention any names.”

Lightning nodded and slowly started to make his way back toward the Mother Road, leaving Strip to silently brood next to Chick’s unconscious form.

* * *

“Look!” Mater pointed down the road. “There he is!”

Those around him at the café snapped around to look. Sure enough, heading right back into town was their dearest friend.

“He’s okay,” Sally breathed in relief, rolling forward in anticipation of greeting him.

“Sure doesn’t look very happy,” Flo commented, squinting.

“He’s alive,” Doc grunted as he passed them all to go meet the kid. “Count your lucky stars.”

Lightning saw his welcoming committee as he rolled into town, led by Doc. They met in front of the medical clinic.

“Well?” Doc asked, driving straight to the point. “That was fast.”

Sally pushed her way in front of Doc and scanned the racer for any injuries. Right away, she noticed the scratches on his fenders and down his sides.

“Were you hurt?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her worry.

Lightning glanced around, knowing his presence commanded attention. Travelers were staring at him as they drove past, pointing him out to others who hadn’t yet noticed.

“Come on.” Lightning nodded toward Doc’s garage. “Let’s go talk over there. Not so public.”

Doc, Sally, Mater, and Sheriff followed him silently behind the garage and out of sight of the road. When he turned to face them again, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for driving off like he did earlier. Sally looked worried to death, Mater seemed too scared to say anything, and Doc and Sheriff both seemed borderline cross with concern.

“Well, bud?” Mater asked when Lightning didn’t speak immediately.

“Um, well,” Lightning looked down at his hood and tried to gather his thoughts. They made sense to him, but he wasn’t quite sure how to put it into words. “I guess first of all, I’m fine.”

“Awful scratched up there, Stickers,” Sally pointed out. “We could hear everything. Didn’t sound very ‘fine’ to me.”

“We’ve been tellin’ visitors that there’s a war reenactment goin’ on over there,” Sheriff said. “Tryin’ to keep curiosity at bay. Kinda hard to do when the ground’s shakin’.”

Lightning nodded. “Thanks. Thanks for covering. No, really, I’m okay. I’m not hurt, it was just…”

He tried to think of the words to explain the fight. It had all happened so quickly. It had been so completely real and dangerous. He’d only gotten scratches. It wasn’t fair. Not too far away the King was burnt, dented, and probably damaged worse than he realized. Chick was lying on the ground unconscious.

And he only got scratched.

“It wasn’t pretty,” he finally managed to say.

“Hicks? What happened to him?” Doc asked.

“They knocked him out,” Lightning answered. “They… they didn’t kill him. One wanted to. The other talked them out of it. It’s kind of hard to explain. But no one died.”

“They want someone to go do the job for them?” Doc mumbled, looking out toward where he last heard the fighting.

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.” Lightning said, subconsciously consoling himself. “He, uh, well, let’s just say he wasn’t operating under his own will, necessarily. We’re gonna try to fix it.”

“‘We’?” Sheriff asked.

“Me and the Chryslers,” Lightning explained. “We’re gonna try to figure out how to end this thing without anyone… you know…”

“Them ain’t the rules, kid,” Doc warned. “Listen, us older cars remember what happened, before you were ever made. Everyone knows what the stakes are. Last car standin’ wins. That’s all there is to it. I wouldn’t be so trusting.”

“Yeah, that sounds pretty fishy to me, too,” Sally offered. “From a legal perspective, they’re bound to that contract. That’s the only reason it didn’t end years ago.”

“I…” Lightning wanted so bad to tell him why he trusted them – why he trusted the King. But he couldn’t. “I need you guys to believe me here. If they wanted to, they could have killed me in an instant. But they didn’t. They could have easily killed Chick, too, but they didn’t. They don’t want to fight, guys. None of them. And we’re all that’s left. We can fix it.”

They met his pleas with silence. They could see the conviction in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He genuinely believed he was operating under truth and trust, and they weren’t about to change his mind.

“How you gonna fix it?” Mater asked. “Y’can’t just stop a war.”

“We’re going to Detroit,” Lightning responded with renewed determination. “We’re confronting the CEOs.”

“Whoa, wait,” Sally jumped in. “Detroit? The CEOs? Stickers, no! Those guys are more powerful than the _government_. You can’t sway them. They won’t listen. They’ll just… they’ll just get _rid_ of you if you pose a threat. I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s alright, Sal, I promise.” He spoke to her in a soft, calming tone. “The Chryslers saved me more than once. I wouldn’t be here without them. I gotta go help ‘em.”

“But – ”

Doc reached out and stopped her before she could protest further. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes. They waited patiently for him to say what was on his mind.

“Do you realize what this could mean for you?” Doc asked, not in a threatening way, but in a collected, inquisitive way. “Have you considered all the possible outcomes?”

Lightning stared at Doc, and opened his mouth to reply a simple ‘yes’. However, before he could vocalize the confirmation, he took the opportunity to go over them again. It was all too possible he could die. He was unarmed, unarmored, and the only one with no experience dealing with the manufacturers. They could dispose of him without so much as lifting a tire. And what did he have to offer in return? Moral support for his friends?

Friends that had taken bullets for him. Friends that didn’t end the war on their own just so they could say they did the right thing.

“Yeah, Doc, I know,” he choked out. “I know what could happen. And can I be honest? I’m scared to death. I can’t put up a fight. I know that. But you know what else? I can’t sit back and do nothing, not after what’s been done for me.”

“Okay,” Doc said, backing up a little. “I respect your decision, much as I don’t like it.”

“What?” Sheriff and Sally asked simultaneously, looking to Doc in disbelief.

“Doc, what’re you sayin’?” Sheriff inquired further. He didn’t understand. Doc always stood for what he knew was right, what was safe.

“The kid knows more about the situation than we do,” Doc said. “And though I have plenty of evidence that says otherwise, I know he’s got good judgement. Call it racer’s intuition.”

Lightning cracked a small smile. He hadn’t expected the old grump to understand in the least, let alone support him.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid, you hear?” Sheriff said, his tone strict and intimidating only to hide a slight waver as he pulled away.

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

“Welp, bud,” Mater addressed him, forcing a smile as he went to follow Sheriff, “you think when you get back we can go see if we can tip all the tractors in one go?”

“Mater, we can do whatever you want,” Lightning responded with a chuckle. “Promise.”

“Alright!” Mater seemed instantly cheered. “See you later, mater.”

Lightning laughed a little more as his best friend disappeared around the corner of the building. His humor faded as he looked back to Doc and Sally, who remained seated in place. One look at the Porsche’s expression and he faltered.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to him, and it wasn’t fair to her either. Why, when they’d just found happiness the week before, was it in danger of being taken away from them?

“Sally, I – ” he tried to think of the right thing to say, something personal or meaningful. His stressed mind couldn’t think of anything. “I’m sorry.”

Sally couldn’t decide how to react. She wanted to yell at him and force him to stay. She wanted to cry, but she had to be strong. He’d made up his mind. Against everything she’d ever wanted, he’d made up his mind. She tried to quell the half of her that wanted to calculate the odds of his return.

“Doc’s right,” she lied to her inner compulsions. “I trust you, Stickers. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

Without regard to Doc’s watchful presence, Sally rolled forward and placed a quick, soft kiss on the red racecar’s lips. He was so stunned he couldn’t react before she pulled away.

“I love you,” she whispered.

She tore her gaze away from him and rushed around the corner before he could see the tears flow down her fenders. As she disappeared, he rolled forward and stuttered a string of incoherent syllables. That wasn’t at all how he’d envisioned a first kiss, let alone an ‘I love you’. What had he done? What had he committed to?

Doc shook himself and let out a dismal sigh. Lightning’s attention snapped back to the Hornet.

“It ain’t just you anymore, hotrod,” Doc told him. “I know you’re tryin’ to be noble and all, but you’ve got cars dependin’ on you now. Don’t let ‘em down.”

Lightning saw him start to pull back into town and came to his senses again. He motioned for Doc to stop. The older car obliged.

“Why do you trust my judgement? Do you think this is the right thing to do?” he asked.

Doc looked at him, surprised at the sudden inquiry, but settled back into a more serious stance. He looked the racer up and down once, taking the time to think about his next words.

“I think this is the dumbest thing you’ll probably ever do,” Doc told him. “But you know what? You’ve made your decision, and you’re well aware of the consequences. You ain’t as dumb as I thought you were a week ago, kid. I gotta give you some credit. But I think more than anything, I trust your company.”

“Huh?” Lightning didn’t understand. “But you don’t even know them. And I can’t tell you because – ”

“It’s that Weathers guy, ain’t it?” Doc interrupted. “The one that was here a few days ago?”

Lightning flinched and rolled backwards in surprise. He hadn’t given the King’s identity away, had he? He didn’t remember saying anything.

“Don’t look so surprised, kid, it wasn’t hard to figure out,” Doc continued. “It should have taken months to recover from a rollover crash like his, even with a team of physicians working around the clock. I’m a doctor. I thought about it. It didn’t make sense for him to show up a few days later looking like new. Only a manufacturer can do that much work that quickly.”

Lightning’s gaze fell as he considered it. He wondered if the King knew how obvious his recovery was in the eyes of a trained medical professional.

“And I won’t even go into the coincidence of the Chrysler fighter showing up right after he left, or the fact that he’s the same make and model and how scarce they are nowadays” Doc carried on. “Point is, Lightnin’, as weird as it sounds, I trust him. He’s fought real battles. I remember the one in the eighties. Saw it on TV. He’s lost brothers in arms, kid, Chrysler’s fighters were fallin’ from the skies like rain. I’m gonna venture that he’s seen things that would scar a normal car for life. Somehow, despite all that, he’s a genuine car at heart. You made a heck of an ally when you helped him finish his last race, kiddo.”

Lightning sighed. “Don’t tell anybody, Doc. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

Doc nodded in understanding. “Won’t say a word. But I expect you back here in a week. You’ve got a grand re-opening to facilitate.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” he agreed. “I’ll be there.”

Doc grunted in approval and went to drive away again. “Go do what you gotta do, kid. Stay safe.”

“Will do,” Lightning reaffirmed as the Hornet turned toward the road.

Something still bugged him. Before Doc got too far away, the rookie called out once more, to appease his guilty conscious.

“Hey Doc? Take care of Sally, will you?”

“Always have, son. Always will.”


	31. Part 3, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McQueen's questions are finally answered. Mostly.

The constant rush of the wind outside the jet served as a source of ambient, steady noise as the Chrysler corporate jet leveled off at cruising altitude. The plush interior of the airliner would seem fit for royalty any other time, but that day it only served as a reminder of how small they were in the grand scheme of the manufacturer’s political business.

Strip struggled to stay awake as the white noise filled the silence in the cabin. His left side ached. He and Izzy had to convert out of their flight modes to enter the aircraft, and his crumpled, scorched panels had made it impossible to do on his own. Izzy had been forced to tear them off so the undamaged panels could move properly. The bare wire ends and exposed manipulation equipment felt raw and unprotected, but he was too tired to care. That sort of pain seemed an old friend, a reminder that he was still alive.

Next to him, Izzy stared absentmindedly out of a window, taking a brief moment to meditate and clear her mind. Hasty decisions were rarely good ones, she knew that, but she still questioned her choices that morning. She tried to approach it logically, but could come to no clear answer. Instead, she elected to take a breather and save it for another time. She supposed it didn’t really matter at that point, anyhow.

Lightning sat facing them, unsure what to do. The two older cars seemed a bit detached, but he didn’t blame them. He thought about what the King had told him earlier that morning, before they confronted Chick. He glanced at the damage they’d both taken on protecting him. It didn’t look comfortable in the least, but yet they didn’t show any emotion one way or the other. What had they been through that made them so numb? Lightning tried to reconcile the fact that a seven-time Piston Cup champion had spent his life fighting some forsaken battle, but despite being mere feet away from the King, it still didn’t make sense. The two just didn’t seem to fit together.

Behind the rookie, Chick sat cattycorner toward the plane’s cockpit. They’d haphazardly shoved him up inside the aircraft and tied him down with ratchet straps so he wouldn’t roll around during takeoff and touchdown. While Izzy’s electroshock tool had promptly knocked him out and rendered him unconscious, it seemed to have left him in more of a dreamlike slumber than an out-cold, anesthetic sleep. Every five or six minutes, the Buick would inhale an unceremoniously loud snore and mutter a few indistinct words before growing quiet again. Every time they thought he’d finally stopped, he’d do it again.

_Hhhnnnkk._

Izzy’s eyelid twitched in annoyance.

“I swear, if I have to hear that one more time, I’m gonna blow a gasket,” she said in an alarmingly calm tone.

“Maybe you should zap him again,” Lightning offered. “Worked pretty well the first time.”

“Can’t,” she said disappointedly. “No sparks on an airplane.”

Strip looked over at her. “Where’d you get that, anyway? I don’t have one.”

“Built it,” she answered shortly. “Got bored and needed something to do. Regular Tasers just don’t do what I want them to. This one delivers a dose of anesthetic and the electricity accelerates the effects on the body.”

Lightning tightened his lips, subtly trying to conceal his reaction to her intimidatingly concise explanation. She had said it as nonchalantly as one could about inventing a new sort of weapon. He figured he should respond in like manner.

“Wow,” he nodded a little in approval. “That’s terrifying.”

Izzy cracked a smile. “Thanks, I thought so.”

A silence settled over them once more. Lightning shifted uncomfortably. Though things had calmed considerably, his predicament still troubled him. He’d had enough.

“So, uh.” He seemed almost hesitant to break the peace. “Can I…?”

“Ask away,” Strip told him, anticipating the question. “We’ll answer what we can.”

Lightning nodded once and tried to think. What did he want to know? Where should he start?

“Well, so here’s what I know,” he began slowly. “I was built for a war. All of us were. Well, maybe not Chick, but he chose to fight anyway, sort of. But you guys all knew what you were? Why didn’t I? Just – fill in the gaps, I guess. I need the full picture.”

“How much do you know about the war itself?” Strip asked. “You gotta understand that before anythin’ else.”

“Um, it’s just GM, Ford, and Chrysler goin’ at it because they all hate each other, right?” Lightning answered, realizing he knew nothing about company politics.

“Well, kinda,” Izzy answered. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, though. Yeah, it’s true they never got along. They were always trying to outdo each other, seeing who could build better, faster, more reliable cars. Trying to improve quality of life, y’know? But in the sixties it got to be too much, and the CEOs became obsessed.”

“These are the same guys that are still in power, yeah?” Lightning asked attentively.

“Yep,” Izzy answered. “They all got together one day and tried to figure out a way to best each other, once and for all. Something fair, they said. And, well, here we are, fighting some stupid war.”

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Lightning interjected, frowning. “Why jump into a war? That’s not what they do. They’re the manufacturers, isn’t their whole code about creating life?”

“They didn’t all want to fight,” Strip told him. “Not all of ‘em, anyway. Rick – the Chrysler CEO – wanted to settle it on the track the old-fashioned way. Just see who could build the fastest, most durable racer. The other two shot that idea down real quick. Said somethin’ like that wouldn’t be remembered, and escalated it to a full-blown war. Kinda funny how we all ended up on the track in the end anyway.”

“Were GM and Ford really that power hungry?” the rookie asked. “That they’re willing to kill? That still… I don’t get it.”

“Well, Ford’s CEO has always been a bit unstable, from our point of view,” Izzy explained. “He’s an excellent businesscar – one of the best the world’s ever seen. But he didn’t get there honestly. I don’t expect him to go out honestly, either. He likes to make bold statements, get the public’s attention. Paul – the guy that created you – is honestly just a crowd pleaser. He likes being in the spotlight. The idea of a war put him there. And Rick, well, he had a temper of sorts. They ticked him off and he wanted to beat them out of spite. Agreed to something he shouldn’t.”

Lightning sighed. He’d never met Paul, though he knew the name. Paul Orchard, GM CEO and overseer of all manufacturing operations. Always on the news. Sometimes for philanthropy, sometimes for questionable or risky manufacturing decisions. The one and the same that had sunk so much time and energy into creating his one-off, custom build. Just to have him killed.

“Alright,” he shook himself in frustrated disappointment. “So what happened next? How did you guys get wrapped up in this?”

“We were built to fight,” Izzy continued. “Or, rebuilt, I guess. Whatever you want to call it. Taken off the line, assessed for a fighter’s personality, and modified for flight and combat. Rick jumped right in after the intention of war became public and – ”

_Hhhnnnkk-ahhh._

“ – I swear I should have killed him earlier,” Izzy whispered at the sudden interruption. “Strip, why did you have to grow a conscience?”

“Don’t blame me,” Strip defended himself. “You’re the one that electrocuted him.”

Izzy opened her mouth to retort, but Lightning cut in before she could get a word out edgewise.

“Right, so, tangent, if I can,” he inserted hastily. “King, forgive me for being so direct, but how in the world did you get selected to fight? You don’t seem like the type. At all.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit of a long story,” Strip answered, glancing out a window. “Short answer, I wasn’t. Not at first. It was sort of an afterthought.”

“A mistake on the manufacturer’s part,” Izzy corrected begrudgingly, taking hold of the conversation before it went down a path she wasn’t prepared to follow. “There were only supposed to be twelve of us. But _someone_ had to go and make friends and got all fussy when he was separated.”

Strip looked at her in slight irritation. “Like two week old me was supposed to know any better.”

“And so they roped him in and made him lucky number thirteen,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “Became part of the family we made for ourselves. Rick thought if he was going to hang around the fighters, he’d be better off being one himself.”

“Didn’t work out very well,” Strip muttered.

“Again, had too much of a conscience,” Izzy threw in. “That, and all he wanted to do was race.”

“Huh,” Lightning pondered it. He looked to Izzy and asked her a question directly. “What about you? You didn’t get to choose to fight, but you didn’t resist?”

“Never thought I had a choice,” she answered. “None of us did. They gave me a job. I wanted to protect what we had at Chrysler, and I was gonna get it done one way or another. That why I was chosen. Goal oriented, focused, driven for a cause. It’s all I know. The only one that ever resisted was him.”

She pointed toward Strip. He looked down at his hood and brought the memory of that first battle back to the forefront of his mind. It’d been years since he willingly recalled it.

“I fought that first battle,” he said, finding the words uncomfortable in his mouth. “We lost someone and I couldn’t handle it. I just ran. I had someone help me get off the factory grounds and I got as far away as I could. Never looked back.”

“Next thing we knew, Dinoco had a new racer,” she added as though she were proud of him. She was, but she’d never actually expressed it in his presence. “Lost all contact for about fifteen years, though.”

“And then the second battle happened,” Lightning added understandingly, thinking back to what Doc had mentioned earlier. “Back in the eighties. That’s the one everyone remembers.”

Strip and Izzy both sighed simultaneously, and for a moment, Lightning hesitated, wondering if he’d said something wrong. He knew how catastrophic it had been on both sides. Debates were still frequently aired about who had really won. Technically, Chrysler had, as Ford apparently withdrew their last soldier and surrendered. But Chrysler lost much more. All things considered, no one really won.

“It was the night after I won my second championship,” Strip said when Izzy didn’t make a move to respond.  “That was when Chick showed up. Not long before his racin’ days. He had control of eight newly manufactured, modded Mustangs. Used them as extensions of himself to take us all on at the same time.”

“Why did you go back to fight?” Lightning asked. “Right after a Piston Cup win?”

“That was my fault,” Izzy said in a quieter tone, leaving her former lightheartedness behind. “I came looking for him because Ford announced their intent to fight. Fight with real soldiers anyway. I didn’t want them to figure out he was one of us. Ford wanted twelve accounts of death. Without him, there were only eleven of us left. If something happened to us, the rest of the aero cars would be at risk of being killed as Ford looked for the last of us. I panicked.”

“I went back because I wanted answers from Rick directly,” Strip answered more directly. “But that was when Stephen decided to attack the RenCen and then us. I couldn’t just sit it out. I was in the building they bombed first. Someone I cared about died. I had to fight.”

“We lost everyone that night,” Izzy whispered, looking Lightning straight in the eyes. “I watched everyone I ever cared about fall out of the sky. I was the only one that flew out of there that night. Some of them died before they ever hit the ground, Lightning. Others caught fire on impact and burned. Strip was half-dead when we found him – underneath a collapsed building half a day later. A miracle he’s still here at all. I thought I was the only survivor. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch something like that happen? To your family?”

Lightning looked down at his hood, unable to meet her stare any longer. He shouldn’t have asked. He’d known about the losses, but they had just been numbers in a history book to him. Chrysler lost ten fighters, and Ford lost eight. That left two and one, respectively. Numbers, they were all just numbers. He’d never understand. He thought about the folks of Radiator Springs. They were his family now. What would he do? He shivered.

Strip watched as the kid cast a guilty stare downward. That was the second time in half a day he’d gotten that lecture, albeit in a different light. It was a hard piece of information to accept, but that made it all the more important.

“Point is, kid,” he said in a gentler tone, “you can’t fight if you don’t have a cause. What happened that night ain’t your burden to bear, but it’s ours – we’ll always have to live with that memory. You need to understand that.”

Lightning nodded. He felt out of place. What was his reason to fight? Did he even have one, other than his manufacturer-given role?

_Hhhrrrrnnnkk._

“Oh. My. G – I’m gonna – ” Izzy growled.

“And I’m probably the last car that’s gonna jump to Hicks’ defense,” Strip continued, cutting Izzy off mid-swear, “but he’s got somethin’ to fight for, too. If what he said was true, and I think it is, he’s been at risk of bein’ controlled most of his life. He’s angry.”

“You think he’ll be on our side?” Lightning asked, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer.

Strip hesitated. Izzy looked at him, curious.

“I think so,” he answered. “He probably won’t like it, but we both know he’ll do whatever’ll get him what he wants. And I think he just wants to be free.”

“We still need to be careful, though,” Izzy warned. “Doing ‘anything’ to get what he wants still includes killing us if it gets bad enough. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Right, okay,” Lightning agreed automatically. “Of course.”

A few seconds of silence passed between the three of them. Lightning looked out the window. The brown, dusty landscape below had turned to green. They’d be over Detroit in no time at all at the speed they were going. He hadn’t felt prepared to begin with, but right then he felt even more unfit.

“Does any of that help at all?” Strip asked him, seeing him fall into thought.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lightning nodded, though he still seemed distracted. “Good context. Explains a lot. But there’s still one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” Izzy asked.

“Ford’s been the one that’s attacking you, right?” he asked. “GM just sat around and didn’t do anything for _years_. Why would they wait so long just to build someone as useless as me? Why do nothing and then sign an alliance? What are they trying to accomplish?”

Strip shared a glance with Izzy. Lightning watched in apprehension as they seemed to communicate nonverbally. A couple awkward moments later, they turned their attention back to him.

“We don’t know,” Izzy told him, shaking herself in confusion. “Paul just showed up one day, said he didn’t want to fight anymore. We drew up a contract and he signed it. No questions asked. Though he did say at one point he was interested in how well you’d perform on the racetrack. Said he didn’t want anything to happen to you before you got your chance to try it out. It was so random, the way he said it.”

“Huh.” Lightning settled into his seat and considered it some more. His conscience refused to rest at ease.

“Honestly, I didn’t trust it when I heard about it,” Strip told him. “Seemed a little too good to be true, but it’s all cleared legally, so now I just don’t know what to think.”

Lightning frowned in a concerned manner and glanced behind him at Chick before turning his attention back to the duo before him. He didn’t want to ask the question that crossed his mind, but his mouth started moving before he could stop it.

“If there hadn’t been an alliance, what would you have done?”

Strip sat silently, unprepared for that question. Would he have stayed behind to scout out Chick’s intentions in Radiator Springs? Would he have taken such initiative to make sure the kid stayed out of harm’s way? After that tiebreaker race, the answer was clear.

“Nothin’ different,” he answered sincerely. “We’re in this together, we’re gonna get out of it together. Somehow.”

_Hhhnnnkk-uuuuuhh._

“That’s it. I’m thowing him out the hatch. Out of the way, kiddo.”

“Chill out, Iz.”


	32. Part 3, Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick tries to save Chick. Strip makes sure he doesn't make the same mistake twice. Decisions are made.

“How the heck did they do this?” Rick muttered under his breath.

Strip heard a wrench fall to the ground, followed by a string of garbled swearing. He opened his eyes and tried to peer around the wall of the repair bay module. The machine seemed to complain at his movement in a series of recalibrations and angry, blinking red lights. He settled back into place and it resumed its job. Steadily, methodically, the pain started to go away.

Somewhere to his right, Rick had Chick strapped down, stripped of every weapon they could find, trying to comprehend the racer’s overly complex duplicated wiring harness. By the sound of it, it wasn’t going well.

Lightning sat parked across the room, well of out the way, trying to take in his surroundings. The repair bay was massive. At least a dozen automated repair machines lined the walls, machines that could do everything from bodywork, to critical systems repair, to maintenance. He didn’t know such things existed. The end of the room he sat in was fully equipped with manual tools and a library of repair guides and diagrams. Off to the side, the King sat still inside one of the repair machines getting his damaged and missing flight panels replaced. Directly before him, a pink Charger Daytona and a white Power Wagon from the fifties were fussing over Chick’s wiring situation while the Buick dozed the afternoon away under the influence of a fresh dose of anesthetic.

The rookie struggled to understand the massive scale of the manufacturing operation. No one else had batted an eye as they’d disembarked from the airplane, but the sheer mass of architecture on the grounds astounded him. There had been a full runway between buildings so tall he couldn’t see beyond them. There was no horizon, just more intimidating buildings looming in the distance. He couldn’t tell the difference between them, what they were used for, or if any of them were inhabited in the least. The grid seemed unescapable. The Chrysler site looked more like a fortified city than anything. Employees drove this way and that, all knowing exactly where they were and where they were going. He felt lost.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Izzy’s urgent voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “You can’t do that. That runs down here, see?”

She and Rick were both up to their axles in deep mechanics underneath Chick’s hood, searching for any hints of a way to at least disable Stephen’s control through the secondary network.

“This wire doesn’t do anything _except_ connect these to that channel there,” Rick pointed out in exasperation. “No use. Except to become part of the vital circuit.”

To the side, Strip’s repair bay slowly whirred to a silent halt. With a click, his restraints released and he rolled forward onto the shop floor, eager to be free. If there was one thing above all others that drove him crazy, it was being physically unable to move. Restraints made him panicky.

“What’s the word?” he asked, approaching the medical disaster before him.

Rick backed away and tossed a tool to the side dramatically. Izzy shot an aggravated look in the truck’s direction and shook herself in annoyance. She pulled Chick’s hood down to give him some decency as Rick turned to Strip and started to rant.

“I can’t undo it,” he said in a tone that only one unused to failure could articulate. “The whole point of designing a vital circuit is to minimize dependencies and opportunity for failure. Stephen went at it from exactly the opposite direction. I found the module that’s receiving and transmitting external commands, but I can’t so much as touch it without a risk of killing him. I can’t. I can’t do anything. I can bring you back from death’s doorstep, but heaven forbid I clip a few wires here. Cars are supposed to be manufactured in such a way to keep this sort of thing from happening.”

“Hm.” Strip kept an even temper as he looked to Izzy. “What do you think?”

“It is what it is,” she said, organizing the tools on the rack next to her. “I specialized in medicines and physical therapy. I know the wiring harness basics, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I’m useless here. My humble opinion? He’s a lost cause. I guess we can say we tried. Should probably do the ethical thing and put him out of his misery.”

“Izzy, no.”

“What?”

Lightning slowly rolled forward from his spot in the corner to join the conversation. He’d never felt so out of place, so useless, but he had to try.

“So there’s no way? No way at all? He’s stuck that way forever?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Rick grumbled, looking at the unconscious Buick in distaste.

“Well, now, wait a minute,” Strip interjected. “I overheard Stephen tellin’ him that if he got the job done, he could go free. Now either that was a flat out lie, or there is somethin’ that can be done.”

“I’m convinced it’s a lie, then,” Rick said without giving it a second thought. “I’ve looked around for two hours and haven’t found anything. I’m just not used to GM circuits.”

“Um,” Lightning hesitated, as he didn’t want to ask an obvious question that wasn’t apparent to him. “What about getting someone from GM to look? You know, a second opinion? Someone specialized maybe.”

Rick stared at the rookie and blinked. Lightning seemed to cower in his presence, unsure if he’d crossed a boundary he wasn’t aware existed.

“I’m an idiot,” was all Rick said, turning to exit the room. “Izzy, make sure this guy stays under. I’ve got a call to make.”

The door slammed closed behind the truck as he left the room, leaving the rest of them in stunned silence.

“Uh, what just happened?” Lightning asked timidly.

“That, kiddo, was you outsmarting the most intelligent car I know,” Izzy responded with a slight hint of humor. “Funny how much of a difference a second opinion can make, huh?”

“Oh,” Lightning relaxed in relief, glad he was not in fact about to be on the receiving end of the manufacturer’s wrath. Still, he didn’t know what was happening.

“I knew there was a reason we brought you along,” Strip commended him.

“Uh, thanks,” Lightning said as though he’d forgotten how to take a compliment.

“Hopefully Paul will see something we missed,” Izzy explained. “He’ll fix Mr. Mustache over there, and we can figure everything out without the constant threat of imminent death. Hopefully.”

As if he was aware of being talked about, Chick moved slightly and made a small noise. Everyone’s attention snapped to him.

“Duty calls,” Izzy said much too enthusiastically as she drove over to the medicine cabinet.

“Watch her, will you?” Strip asked Lightning, turning to drive toward the exit. “Don’t let her do anythin’ unethical.”

“Hey, rule number one of med school – ‘do no harm’,” she called to him, making no effort to excuse the hypocrisy of her day job. “I know what I’m doing. Where are you going?”

“Got a phone call to make,” Strip answered, opening the door. “Learned my lesson the last time.”

* * *

“You know, I was startin’ to wonder when you’d check in,” Lynda answered after half a ring.

“Wow, not even a hello?” Strip asked, feigning offense.

He heard her laugh a little. “I knew it was you. Caller ID, you know. You’re in Michigan? What happened?”

“You want the long version or the short one?” he asked.

“Whichever one gives me a clearer picture of what’s goin’ on.”

“Well.” He took in a breath and thought about where to start. “It played out pretty much like I thought. Hicks went back to Radiator Springs after McQueen. Attacked him early this morning.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. I got him out of there.”

“Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine, Lyn. A little beat up but fine.”

He heard her sigh in relief. “Alright. Good. Go on.”

“Anyway, the kid got to safety and I went and talked to him. Told him what was goin’ on.”

“Oh, I bet he didn’t like that at all.”

“Uh, well, that’s one way of puttin’ it. But he came to his senses quick enough, right in time for Izzy to show up. We worked to get Chick away from the town so we could take him down. I think it went well.”

“So he’s dead?”

“No, not at all. You were right, Lynda, I couldn’t do it. Iz was more than happy to, but I couldn’t let her. Come to find out, Chick wasn’t entirely actin’ out of free will. Stephen’s got him wired up so he can control him. We knocked him out, hauled him to the factory. That’s what we’re doin’ up north. Tryin’ to get him fixed so we can resolve this without any more surprises.”

“Hmm.” She considered it. “Y’know, I’m proud of you, Strip. I think you did the right thing.”

He sighed. “I hope so. Been second guessin’ myself a lot lately. Can’t help but feel it’s not gonna end as quietly as I’d like.”

“Maybe not, but you know what? It _will_ end. It can’t go on forever. And then you’ll never have to deal with this again. Just remember that, okay?”

“I know.”

They fell into comfortable, thoughtful silence for a moment. Lynda didn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t need to. On the other end of the line, Strip took a moment and closed his eyes, imagining the day when the war would be nothing more than a memory and another stamp in the history books. His future would no longer hold more than its fair share of uncertainty.

“Hey, Lyn?” he said after a bit. “I wanna apologize to you.”

“For what?” she asked, concern growing in her voice. He wasn’t keeping something from her, was he? She immediately assumed the worst.

“For takin’ off like I did on the way home,” he explained. “I was too distracted. I should’ve known you didn’t mean what you said. I know you better than that.”

 _Oh, that._ Lynda relaxed in relief. All mental images of him apologizing for something fatally stupid he was about to do vanished.

“Hey, now listen.” He could hear the smile in her voice. It somehow compounded his guilt. “I meant every word I said. I just didn’t show you how I felt. You got enough to worry about. You don’t need to be thinkin’ about me while out there tryin’ to fix all this.”

“I think I do, though,” he responded quietly. “Keeps me goin’ sometimes.”

“Well, my point is you’ve got enough on your plate,” she insisted. “Strip, I love you. I worry about you. That’s my job. But you need to do what you have to do. We can get all sappy about it later when it’s over, alright?”

He chuckled a little at her blunt resolve. “Alright then. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Love you.”

“I’ll be waiting. Love you, too.”

* * *

Several hours later, the red and white mid-fifties Bel Air threw the final piece of twisted copper wire to the floor. With a satisfactory smile, Paul turned and faced his small audience.

“Well, guys, it’s been a while since I’ve worked on a Grand National, but I think we have ourselves a success here,” he announced. “Ain’t a bit of wire left that isn’t vital or Piston Cup regulated.”

Rick looked at his competitor, dumbfounded. His gaze dropped to the detached control module on the ground.

“How in the _heck_ – ”

“It’s a tricky circuit to begin with,” Paul shrugged. “Our pal Stephen found all the shortcomings and took advantage of them. I worked from there back.”

Rick shook himself in astonishment. “I should call you for electrical problems more often.”

Paul slammed Chick’s hood closed and rolled back to observe the defected Buick. He shook himself as though he were disappointed.

“You know when you wanted to settle this on the track?” Paul asked Rick. “Back in eighty-seven, fastest new American production car, right here. I think that’s when I changed my mind about the fighting.”

Rick grunted, deflecting Paul’s amiable approach to conversation. “The past is gone. Let’s figure out what to do now.”

“Hmm,” Paul wondered aloud. “You know I never considered an end to this that didn’t result in someone losing, well, their lives.”

“I think we’ve lost enough,” Izzy muttered from behind them, sweeping the disconnected wires and components into a trash bin.

Paul looked at her cautiously, as though he were afraid of her presence. She circled back around and parked next to Strip, who sat silently off to the side, keeping McQueen company.

“Bunch of racecars,” Paul mumbled in astonishment. “Who would’ve thought?”

Lightning met his manufacturer’s gaze with cold resentment. Four hours ago, Paul had just waltzed on in all positive and upbeat and completely elected to ignore his newest creation. Lightning had burning questions he wanted to ask the CEO, but it was clear this wasn’t the place or the time.

“You did good this year, McQueen,” Paul complimented him as though they knew each other. “Heck of a lot better than I reckoned you would. Best racer I’ve dreamed up so far.”

Lightning didn’t so much as acknowledge the compliment, but inside, his mind was spinning.

_A racer, huh? But you didn’t stop there, did you? Why? Tell me your reasoning._

Before anyone attempted to break the awkward silence, Chick moved and let out a moan. The light sedative Paul had insisted to perform the operation under had run its course. Everyone turned their attention to the dazed car as he lazily opened his eyes.

“Ugh,” he groaned, looking around. “I hate all of you. Every last one of you.”

He looked at Rick. “I don’t even know you.”

Paul approached him with a lively smile and bumped him on the fender with a tire. “Look at you! Good as new and ready to roll again.”

“Why don’t you take that positivity and shove it up your tailpipe,” Chick grumbled, grimacing and leaning away from the Chevy. “And don’t touch me.”

“You ought to thank him,” Izzy chimed in, eager to watch Chick smolder in angry annoyance. “He ripped that second set of wires out of you. You’re free to be unpleasant to anyone you want now, on your own terms.”

He scowled at her. “I especially hate you. You’re a grade-A b- ”

Strip cleared his throat and rolled forward a little, demanding everyone’s attention. They all fell silent and looked at him.

“Much as I’d like to sit here and talk, we’ve got work to do,” he said. “We’re not leavin’ until this war’s ended. So let’s figure it out.”

“Well, I mean, I’d be fine with just calling it off,” Paul offered. “I’m tired of it. But we can’t do that without Stephen, and he’s not gonna agree.”

“We wanna end this thing?” Chick asked, rolling forward and feeling himself out.  After a few seconds he seemed to realize he was truly freed and his expression solidified into determination. “Alright then. Let’s go. We’re takin’ it to him.”


	33. Part 3, Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford HQ is not a welcoming place. It's the end of the road.

Ford Motor Company’s headquarters engulfed the majority of Dearborn, a city within a city. Though not tall, the buildings stretched across the land in orderly miniature districts, perfectly manicured and free from the scars of war. From the air, they looked the same. It was nearly impossible for an outsider to distinguish the manufacturing units from the resident housing from the adoption offices. That had been one of the reasons Chrysler never attacked them on their own land. The risk of endangering civilian life had been too high.

The moment the three black helicopters entered restricted airspace, the alarms on premise went haywire. For a few short minutes, the grounds buzzed to life as all employees retreated to safety, to bunkers hidden underground, preparing for an attack. Nothing but the sound of chopper blades and blaring sirens filled the air as their transporters dropped the six of them off next to the tallest building, marking the center of Ford’s home territory.

“Alright, what now?” Rick yelled over the deafening sound of helicopters taking to the air again.

Chick motioned toward the doors ahead. The sleek, black building rose before them, contrasting the bright blue sky. The façade facing them was nothing but a jointed sheet of tinted safety glass that wrapped around the building, casting their reflections back at them – two old executive officers, three racecars, and an angry pink medical professional.

Without warning, Izzy took point and fired a shot into the glass wall that prohibited them from entering. Instantaneously, the glass fractured and fell to the ground in a fluid motion.

“Clear,” she said, moving forward and leaving her stunned company behind.

Chick frowned and moved to the side to press a switch next to the entrance. The metal frame of what used to be the front door moved apart to make way for them, shards of glass still haphazardly clinging to it.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked.

Izzy scowled and pushed past him, tires crunching on shrapnel as she entered the building, guns drawn.

Chick rolled his eyes and followed. Paul went next, looking around in awe at modern architecture. Ford’s corporate building was a far cry better than his rented space at the Renaissance Center. He silently took notes on a few interior decorating patterns.

Behind him, Strip followed with McQueen sticking close and Rick taking up the rear. Strip had his senses dialed to eleven, processing as much about his environment as possible. There was a little voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to leave and to get as far away as possible. It was the same voice he’d listened to thirty-some years earlier when he left Michigan for good. It felt wrong to ignore it.

“This way.” Chick hung a left and drove past the elevator. “Ol’ Steve prefers his concrete dungeon over his ivory tower exec suite.”

“I thought it was some sort of unspoken rule that the CEO had to have an office at the top of the tallest building,” Paul whispered, dropping back a little to drive next to Strip as if they were old friends. Agitated and admittedly unnerved by the GM executive, Strip didn’t act as though he heard him.

The building’s lobby narrowed into a hallway that promptly ended as they entered it. It was strange, no doors, no ramps to another level, nothing but a wall of windows to their left and a polished marble barrier to the right. Izzy fell back next to Strip and let Chick and Paul lead. She tried her best to keep from hyperventilating, but Strip could see it in her eyes. Claustrophobia and a fear of entrapment had plagued her ever since they could remember. They shared a glance, equally apprehensive about their situation.

Chick touched the wall to his right. A subtle click sounded from in front of them, and a thin black piece of metal emerged from a crack between the polished blocks. Chick looked straight ahead as it performed a retinal recognition scan on him, granting him access to whatever lay beyond. The scanner slid back into place as the floor underneath started to move.

The seemingly solid floor began to slope downward, hinging at a point far behind them. As the end of the hall lowered, it unveiled a darkened corridor, dimly lit by old-fashioned wire lights. As soon as the floor came to a halt, Chick rolled off and into the dismal alley. The rest followed him cautiously.

Lightning came to the sudden realization that he shouldn’t be there. He should have stayed in Radiator Springs. He should have stayed with Sally. He had no business going into the basement of any manufacturer’s corporate building, none at all. He tried to stay next to the King, even though the Superbird had insisted he stay behind him. Lightning looked over and tried to glean the same sense of security he’d felt earlier in the King’s presence. In the faded light of the tunnel, the white ‘43’ on the King’s door stood out in bright contrast. He focused on that, and thought back to those days on the track.

This wasn’t the track.

“Well!” A strong voice echoed off the concrete walls from somewhere unseen. “Look who’s here!”

Chick rounded a sharp turn in the hall and rolled into a well-lit workshop, followed by his five sworn enemies.

Stephen looked up from his workbench and eyed the unwelcome company. “And you brought the welcoming committee, eh? Guess that means you didn’t do your job.”

“We just wanna talk, man,” Chick said, making room for everyone else to filter in.

Paul took a little liberty to look around the shop, driving around Chick to admire the contraptions lining the room. Stephen had built a full-blown private machine shop in the basement. All around were unfamiliar models of drivetrains, suspension parts, and wild takes on up-to-date electronic guidance systems.

“Well, first, you – ” Stephen pointed to Paul as he gazed at an oddly shaped engine block near the right wall of the room, “ – don’t. Touch. Anything. I’ll have you litigated for snooping around company confidential research.”

Paul backed off and turned to face Stephen instead. Rick forced himself forward and parked directly in front of Stephen’s workbench, staring coldly at his competitor. He had to consciously quell the urge to put the old Business Coupe in the ground right where he was.

Strip moved forward as well, stopping several feet to the left of Rick just to get a better look around. Chick was hanging back off to the left, fidgeting and rolling his tire back and forth in little arcs across the polished floor. Who knew what he’d experienced in this room. It was all too possible some of these prototypes had been tested on him.

The retired racer looked past his former opponent to the far corner of the room and shivered. There, all stacked in an orderly pile, were lifeless husks of older model cars. It was haunting. Everything from Crown Victorias to GTs to the very same models of Mustangs that had been used to fight. Strip shivered and tried to convince himself that those bodies never held life. They were just shapes, prototypes of what eventually came to pass. But he couldn’t be sure.

Izzy hung back. She needed to have a clear perspective of everything in the room. She wasn’t about to trust anyone enough to turn her back to them. Confined spaces didn’t lend themselves well to combat. She had to be ready to strike from any and every angle.

Stephen put down the wired mess of a contraption he’d been working on and turned his focus to the issue at hand.

“So you guys wanna talk? About what?” he asked “Ending the war? Which one of these guys we’re gonna throw under the bus? Take you pick, as long as it ain’t my guy.”

“Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” Rick asked, forgoing any courtesy that may have existed previously.

Stephen laughed in a relaxed manner and shook himself. “Rick, come on. You were as enthusiastic about this as I was. Just suck it up, man. It is what it is.”

“I have the right to change my mind,” Rick argued. “We all do.”

He looked to Paul, who, alarmed at being put on the spot, struggled to come up with any supporting argument.

“Y – yeah. What he said,” Paul agreed with a shrug. “It’s not gonna mean anything in the end anyway, who wins, who loses.”

“Oh, but you misunderstand,” Stephen corrected him in a smooth voice, rolling away from his station and casually approaching them. “Remember how upset everyone got back in the eighties? Do you? The country was on the brink of a revolution just to bring us down. To subdue us! But they didn’t. They knew they couldn’t. That’s the kind of power we have, guys. That’s the power I want to keep - I want to be the best of it. You know that.”

“This was never about power,” Rick argued. “We shouldn’t abuse the liberties we have. This was about which one of us was the best manufacturer. Which one of us could create the best form of life. Nothing more.”

“Maybe not at face value,” Stephen said. “But think about it. What are we? We control our companies. We’ve all three of us dedicated our lives to making sure the manufacturing plants stay functional and life is replenished regularly. It’s about the business, guys. Sure, it’s about what we can do to outsmart each other, but it’s more than that. We control the world as we know it. If I can prove that I’m the best head of manufacturing in America - or better yet, the _world_? What does that say about me, my company? Sales and adoptions will be through the roof! You know the rule – always do what’s in the best interest of the corporation. Winning this war is ultimately in my best interest.”

His words flowed like honey from his mouth, so suave and convincing it would make any less experienced, any less battle-hardened car second guess their opinion.

It lit Rick’s conscious on fire.

“How many cars have to die?” he asked, his temper getting the best of him. “How many before you’re happy?”

Stephen shrugged as though it were a trivial thing to consider. “Well, looking around me right now, two is the best case scenario, three’s the worst if I ignore your stupid little pact you guys made. I mean, come on! What’s a few lives? We can make more. That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

“Uh, how about no deaths? That’d be great,” Chick tentatively threw out, breaking into the dialogue.

Stephen glared at him. “You have given me nothing but trouble since the day I brought you in. You didn’t do what I required of you, and you know you’re not welcome until you do. Don’t talk again. Let the experts handle this.”

Chick shuddered slightly in rage. He had no tolerance for being on the receiving end of such condescension. He became acutely aware of the fact that Stephen no longer had a hold on him. He could actually act against his oppressors will! But how could he do so effectively? His weapons were all scattered in a dumpster somewhere on Chrysler’s property.

“I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up,” Stephen announced, growing short with patience. “You came to talk this out? We’re talking. You’re not going to change my mind. I’m not one to start something and leave it unfinished. If you want so bad to end this today, then let it end the way it was intended.”

“No.”

Strip’s voice resonated off the concrete walls around them with the same intensity and clarity his cutting stare held. If Stephen wasn’t going to play nice, he wasn’t either.

“You don’t have power over us. You can’t make us fight.”

Stephen looked over at the Dinoco racer and nodded in approval despite the disappointment in his eyes.

“You know, it’s a shame really,” the Ford said in an elevated tone fueled with irritation. “You were always my favorite racer. I was quite the fan for a while, despite your stupid make and model. I liked the way you handled yourself on the track - made me think you were smarter than this. I sometimes wondered what I’d do if you turned out to be the missing thirteenth fighter. I guess now I know.”

Stephen reached under the table and flicked a switch. Everyone in the room stiffened in apprehension as a little red light flickered to life next to it. There was a short buzz as nothing happened. Stephen’s countenance failed.

Chick let out a victorious laugh at the absence of any noticeable action.

“Kill switch don’t work so well anymore, does it?” he asked with renewed confidence.

“What?” Stephen seemed shocked, looking around the room in confusion. His gaze settled on Paul.

“All in an alliance,” Paul said nonchalantly. “I said I’d do anything to help end this, yeah? That includes unwiring high jacked nervous systems for an ally.”

Stephen growled. “This is a simple problem. A simple solution. Honestly, look at you all. Why don’t you start with the flimsy guy there in the red, huh? He’s harmless. Someone finish him off. Get this thing started.”

“But I worked so hard on him,” Paul said quietly from across the room.

Lightning sat uneasily between Strip and Rick, waiting. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Death? Someone to save him? To wake up and find all of this a dream?

“I don’t even know why you made him to begin with,” Rick muttered. “No offense, kid.”

Paul looked down at the ground in front of him and frowned. He let out a labored sigh.

“Well, if I’m being honest, it was my plan B,” he admitted. “I could try to outdo all of your guys’ battle tech, or I could make some bait.”

_Bait?_ Strip’s mind started turning. He’d used Lightning as bait earlier to drag Chick out of town. Lightning – the alliance – was the reason they were all together in Detroit, having this conversation to begin with.

Lightning was just a means to an end.

Strip felt himself grow cold in fear.

“Anything to end a war, right?” Paul asked.

Instinctively, Strip forced himself to transform faster than he thought possible and covered Lightning with his wing.

A loud _bang_ reverberated off the lab walls, mixing with the hysteria of multiple screams.

Strip felt a spray of oil spatter onto his hood.


	34. Part 3, Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the road, part 2.

Shocked silence filled the air.

Strip opened his eyes, dreading the very worst. His wing hadn’t intercepted any bullet. The oil staining his hood and fenders was warm, vital fluid. He glanced back at Lightning. The rookie was shuddering, trembling under his wing with eyes closed. He was shamelessly frightened, but lacked any evidence of a wound.

The evidence lay beyond.

Rick sat motionless, twenty feet displaced from where he’d been moments prior, directly between Paul and Lightning. Confusion filled the Power Wagon’s eyes as his gaze flickered down to the gaping holes just barely above his fenders. His mouth hung slightly agape as a puddle of fluids grew rapidly between his front tires. Within seconds, he started to seem distant.

Izzy came to first. “No. No, no, no.” She threw all caution to the wind and rushed to Rick’s side, the only father figure she’d ever known.

Rick blinked a couple times and frowned, trying to focus. He then looked to her and smiled softly. Strip saw the glint of tears lining the truck’s windshield, contrasting the serenity his voice and expression otherwise conveyed.

“It’s time,” he said to Izzy. “Finally. Remember what I told you, Izabel.”

Her eyes widened and likewise filled with unrelenting tears.

“I can’t do that without you,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“You will,” he countered softly. “I know you will.”

Before she could continue, he looked from her down to his left. Strip sat silent in shock, trying to process the sight of the dying truck and comprehend the conversation he’d just heard. What had they been talking about? What had just happened? This couldn’t be. Aside from Izzy, Rick had been the only constant throughout his entirety of his life, the seemingly steadfast anchor in the eye of the storm. When no one else could help, Rick always could. He was a manufacturer. He was immortal.

Except he wasn’t.

Strip met his maker’s gaze and felt a funny sense of déjà vu. Rick hadn’t ever looked at him with that sort of soft, genuine candidness before – had he? Strip didn’t think so, yet a fuzzy memory surfaced. Though it was distorted, like looking through warped, stained glass, it existed.

“You couldn’t have made me more proud, son,” he whispered.

He was gone. Just like that. Strip pulled away slightly, away from Rick’s body, away from Lightning. He lost all sense of self as thirty-five years of memories flashed before his eyes. Some were clear, others so hazy they might as well not have existed at all. Getting fixed after the wreck. Learning the truth about his parentage and having it ripped away. Sitting in meetings looking at lazily drawn statistical charts. Those were all typical, flashbacks he had grown used to, but a new one surfaced. Sitting in a yard, a bright sunny day, looking at a small white house in the country. To his left, a Monaco sat smiling at him. To his right, the same white Dodge truck that lay before him now.

Stephen’s hearty chuckle brought Strip back to reality, fast and hard. He realized how sick the forced transformation made him feel. He realized what he had lost. He realized his anger.

“Well isn’t that sweet?” Stephen commented. “Never get attached. To anyone. Let alone kids. That’s my motto. What’d you say, Paul? Think this’ll do?”

The Bel Air stared down at the gun he held, black metal contrasting red and white paint. Paul grimaced as though he were disappointed. Had he really pulled the trigger? A white tendril of smoke still wafted upwards from the barrel, disappearing into a vent.

“Anything to end the war,” he muttered, frowning. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.”

Lightning shrank away from the deceased body and backed towards the wall. That bullet had been meant for him. Now there was a dead car – a car that wasn’t supposed to die. Not that day. A car that was responsible for creating nearly a fourth of the lives in North America was gone just because of his presence.

Strip watched Lightning shy away from the scene. For a moment, they made eye contact. Strip saw himself in the rookie’s eyes. That had been him twenty years prior, in only the slightest of different circumstances. That was the night he found his reason to fight.

Lightning fought an array of emotions as he met the King’s stare. He was beyond upset. He felt as though he were to blame, even though he knew better. He saw the pain in the King’s expression, through his anger. He heard the same pain in the Daytona’s voice. His conscious screamed that it was his fault, but he knew it wasn’t. Still, he desired redemption.

“Ah, well, someone had to make the sacrifice,” Stephen said in response to Paul’s less than eager excuse. “I guess the alliance is over? Kind of hard to keep a pact when one of you’s dead.”

Izzy snapped. She screamed a deafening shriek that could shatter glass and transformed with as much fury as her brother had moments earlier. Her left wing scraped across the top of Stephen’s workbench, sending electrical parts flying as she whipped toward Paul. The Bel Air yelped as he backed into a shelf, knocking hundreds of obscure parts to the floor.

She crashed into him with as much momentum as she could muster in the restricted space. His thick sheet metal buckled under the rigidity of her armor and he cried out in pain, fumbling with the murder weapon he still held. Izzy saw it and knocked it from his grasp, sending it skidding across the floor. Then she resumed her task, her one motive.

Strip saw Stephen move toward her, and engaged in the offensive. Without thinking, he launched a grenade right in front of the Coupe. The short timer caused the miniature bomb to explode on impact, creating a fiery wall between the psychotic executive officer and his sister. Stephen swore and backed away in haste, running into one of his many toolboxes.

“What can I do?” Lightning asked out of nowhere.

Strip turned and looked at him, surprised at the evenness of the younger car’s tone. Lightning’s expression was set in cold resolution, void of the quivering fear he’d just exhibited.

“I need to do something,” Lightning continued. “I can’t just sit here. This is my fault– ”

“No,” Strip told him sternly. “It isn’t. Remember that, alright?”

Lightning watched as the racing veteran disconnected one of his own weapons and slid it towards him. He reached for it, the magnetic support arms and controls automatically clicking into place in his wheel and on his fender.

“Protect yourself,” the King told him. “Do whatever you have to do.”

From the opposite side of the room, Chick watched everything play out. It was chaos. General Motors’ lighthearted, overpaid spokesperson was a murderer, Chrysler’s chief executive officer was _dead_ , the pink crazy lady was slowly beating Paul into a pulp, and the old man had just given McQueen a gun. That was not how he had pictured this trip going at all.

Chick saw Stephen’s focus on Paul and his assaulter through the fading wall of flames that still burned along the floor. He was distracted. Now would be the perfect time to attack.

But attack with what? In terms of weapons, even McQueen was better off than he was. His nearly impenetrable armor meant nothing outside of its defensive capabilities. He looked around for something, anything he could make do with.

Strip turned his attention back to Stephen, but saw Chick move out of his peripheral vision. Instinctively, he took note of the Buick’s actions. What was he doing? Just sitting there, looking around? There was a fight going on, and if Strip knew anything about his opponent, Chick never backed down from or avoided a fight that directly involved him. Something wasn’t right.

Frustrated at the toolbox for being in his way, Stephen pushed it over, spilling its contents everywhere. The mess seemed to frustrate the Ford even more so. Stephen lost all interest in Izzy’s assault on Paul at the aggravation of trying to drive over several small, manual tools. He was distracted. _Distracted_. Distracted meant vulnerable.

Of course.

Praying he wouldn’t regret it later, Strip unhitched a second weapon, a larger gun than the one he’d given McQueen, and placed it on the floor, loaded. One shot from that thing would blow a normal car from earth to kingdom come. He shoved it toward Chick.

Chick turned at the sound of metal scraping against the coated concrete floor. He watched in disbelief as the black tactical weapon skittered to a halt next to his front right wheel. Huh? He looked up. His life-long rival shot him a warning, aggressive look before turning away and leaving McQueen unguarded to attend to the Daytona’s situation.

_Huh._

Without further hesitation, he picked up the weapon. He looked up again as he got a feel for the mechanics of it. He glanced at McQueen, intently staring back at him. The foolish fear the rookie had exhibited early that morning was gone. He wasn’t afraid anymore, or if he was, he was too jaded to express it. Just like the rest of them.

Chick felt himself smile. Yeah, the other two racers hated him, he knew that. He didn’t much care. Given the chance, they would probably take pleasure in physically beating the dickens out of him, but in that moment, none of it mattered. In that moment, he had old man Weathers’ trust. He had McQueen’s silent approval. But most of all, he had his personal persecutor cornered and unaware. As much as he despised his fellow racers in return, Chick hated Stephen with a rage that dwarfed all others.

“Hey, Stevie boy,” Chick called to the frazzled CEO. “Check this out.”

Stephen jumped at Chick’s voice and turned to look at him. His eyes narrowed as he fixed them on the gun barrel pointed his way.

“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, eh?” Chick asked, his voice full of retribution.

Stephen growled and lunged for a metal contraption on a nearby table. Chick wasn’t one to waste time. He pulled the trigger without a hint of hesitation.

Everyone in the room halted and redirected their attention as a massive fireball consumed a solid third of the open area. Through the smoldering red and orange haze, the motionless outline of an old Ford slowly disintegrated. The rippling heat radiating from the inferno forced everyone to the farthest reaches of the room’s corners for a few long moments. A wounded Paul complained in discomfort as his paint began to bubble.

Izzy glanced at Chick, staring down the harrowing scene without an ounce of regret and looking quite content, resolved even. Halfway between them sat Rick’s body right where it had been before the explosions, now with scorch marks adorning his front quarters. The puddle of oil beneath him slowly burned away. She turned back to Paul.

“Wait, I – ”

Without showing another ounce of emotion, she fired three consecutive shots with practiced accuracy. Paul shuddered, tried to breathe, and choked. Izzy watched without regret as he faded away. The moment he closed his eyes she transformed back and threw down her gun.

With a blank look in her eyes, she surveyed the room again. Three bodies lay before her – well, two bodies and a molten heap of another. The three most powerful cars in North America, gone, all on the same day, in the same room. They’d unknowingly created their own demise. Deceit and cunning had only gotten them so far.

Across the workshop, Chick likewise took it all in. That was it. It was over. Stephen was gone, and the contract abolished along with him and the others. His mind drifted slightly, realizing he could leave that place, be his own self, and never have to worry about being forced to do anything against his will ever again. That was more valuable than anything – better than a mansion on a hill, better than being swarmed by adoring fans, better than a name on a Piston Cup.

He gently laid the weapon Strip had given him on the ground and pushed it away from him. As he looked back up, he found himself the subject of observation. He let out a conclusive sigh.

“Well, y’all have fun cleaning this up,” he said, turning toward the exit. Before he disappeared through the doorway, he stopped. “Thanks for the gun.”

Strip watched him leave. A vague sense of security returned as the Buick disappeared from sight. He glanced at Lightning. The rookie was okay, on the outside at least. Strip found he couldn’t quite read the expression in the racer’s eyes. It was somewhere between exhaustion and melancholy. The straight fear that had plagued him most of the day was absent. Still, there seemed to be something out of place.

“Go wait for us up in the lobby,” Strip ordered him gently. “You don’t have to stay down here and look at this.”

Lightning looked at his friend and frowned in concern. Still fixed in his armored flight mode, the King was covered in the remnants of someone else’s life. There was an absence in his expression that only experiencing the death of a loved one could leave.

“Are you sure?” Lightning asked, guilt-ridden.

Strip nodded a couple times and motioned to the door. “We won’t be long. We’ll get you home as soon as we can.”

“Alright, well,” McQueen paused before turning for the exit, “if there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

Strip forced a weak smile at the familiar Tex-esque saying. Lightning returned it briefly before letting his gaze fall to the ground. He softly placed his borrowed weapon, unfired, on the floor and drove around it.

As the racer’s engine faded in the corridor, Strip turned back to his sister, still looking absent, numb from shock. He converted back to his normal form, tucking away his wings so he could pull up alongside her. She took one look at him and lost it. Her cold composure fell to uncontrollable weeping as she leaned against him for comfort.

All was quiet except the calm crackling and flickering of lingering flames and shaky, gasping sobs.


	35. Epilogue

**Radiator Springs, the next day…**

Lightning woke with a start, ending the visions of flames and sounds of screams as quickly as they’d began. To his right, that charmingly annoying alarm clock was going at it, signaling the start of a new day. Jimi Hendrix was blaring somewhere nearby. Otherwise, serene, wind-blown silence filled the atmosphere around the Cozy Cone Motel.

He switched the clock off and focused on a bird tweeting in the trees outside. He closed his eyes again to regain his lost composure.

“You’re fine. You are more than fine. Your friends are fine. Everyone is safe. It’s over,” he rambled under his breath, repeating the same sentiment until he had convinced himself.

He’d arrived only five hours earlier, in a private helicopter that disrupted the peaceful night over Radiator Springs. The first thing he’d seen was nearly a dozen tired, frightened faces that greeted him as he landed. They swarmed him, all asking variations of the same two questions.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

As relieved as he’d been to come home, he’d panicked. He was stressed and tired and wanted nothing more than to erase the past twenty-four hours from his mind. He’d not given them a response. Instead, he ran from them, holing himself up in his favorite Cone for some much needed peace and rest. He did, however, manage to share a longsuffering stare with Sally before closing the door. He needed to talk to her, to apologize to her.

A sudden knock sounded at the door. Lightning jumped, suddenly alert. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

Doc sat patiently on the other side of the garage door, his usual grumpy, stern demeanor absent.

“Doc?” Lightning asked, surprised to see him and not Sally.

“Hey, kiddo,” Doc greeted him quietly with a soft, but concerned, smile. It was what Lightning always thought a real doctor should exhibit. “How’re you feelin’?”

Lightning looked down at his hood and shrugged. The scratches on his fenders and down his sides still irritated him, uncomfortable reminders of yesterday.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “Just need some new paint and a little work from Ramone.”

Doc shook himself. “That’s not what I meant.”

Lightning stared at his mentor for a few moments, reading the undertones from the old car’s expression. He sighed.

“I don’t know, Doc,” he admitted. “It’s early. I’m tired. I don’t wanna think about it.”

Doc didn’t push the issue, though he had hoped for a more insightful answer. Instead, he nodded empathetically.

“News all over the radio this mornin’ is that it’s over,” Doc said. “They’re kind of makin’ it sound like a coup, but no one’s given any real answers yet.”

Lightning avoided eye contact. “They’re all gone. The head manufacturers, I mean. All three of ‘em.”

Doc looked surprised. The despairing confidence and succinctness in the rookie’s response was evidence of fact. What had he witnessed?

“Hmm,” Doc pondered. “Well, you don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready. I just want you to know that we’re glad you’re safe. All of us. You had us real worried there, hot rod. I don’t ever want you to hesitate to come to me – or anyone else for that matter – if it gets to be too much to handle.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Lightning showed his appreciation genuinely.

“I’ll leave you be, then,” Doc dismissed himself, backing away. “Welcome home, son.”

Lightning watched Doc drive away, heading back toward his office. Slowly, the town’s residents began to stir, opening up their businesses for the day and passively greeting each other. McQueen found himself being drawn toward the ambient busywork and rolled out of the motel.

As he approached the road, a flash of light blue caught his attention. Sally had noticed his movement and gone to approach him, hesitating at the motel’s office door. She looked worried, but shot him a smile anyway. He returned the sentiment and drove over to her instead.

“Hey, Sal,” he greeted her.

“Stickers,” she received him in return.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Sally had so, so many questions for him. She wanted to know everything. She wanted to know the truth behind the news reports, what he’d experienced, and how on earth he’d made it back in one piece. Most of all, she wanted to ensure his well-being. She took a brief moment to truly appreciate his presence. A day ago, she hadn’t been sure she’d ever be with him again.

“Wanna go for a drive?” she asked, throwing all other pressing matters to the wayside.

The look on his face was worth it. He smiled, an unforced smile that truly felt natural.

“What’re we waiting for?” he replied.

Wheel Well had been beautiful the first time he saw it, but that paled in comparison to the countryside charm it embodied that day. For several long moments, Lightning found himself enamored with the panoramic view the mountainside lookout afforded. Visitors lazily passed through the town below, trickling in off the interstate and bringing life once again to Ornament Valley. This was what life should be like.

Sally found herself looking at the racecar more than the view. He’d never been so quiet. Sure he’d appreciated the vista before, but never like this. He’d parked so close to her they nearly touched. She found his proximity reassuring, but it continued to raise so many questions. She didn’t know how to ask them.

“Thank you,” he said eventually, looking at her.

“For what?” she asked.

“For this,” he motioned to the grand scene before them. “For convincing me to stay. You know, giving me a home. Didn’t know I needed one until now.”

She smiled at him, trying her best to keep any tears at bay.

“Oh, well, it’s just an overlook,” she attempted to make light of it.

“No,” he claimed. “It’s much more than that.”

She leaned against him and he unabashedly returned the favor. After a few seconds, her burning questions overcame her again.

“Tell me what happened,” she pleaded quietly.

Lightning sat quietly for a few long moments, long enough for her to wonder if she should have avoided the inquiry. He didn’t show any signs of prevalent emotion.

“We ended it,” he eventually said. “Or, well, they ended it, I guess. I just turned out to be a tool, I think. Sort of a catalyst to the end. I don’t know how to explain it, but Sally, I am so sorry for leaving you like I did. I shouldn’t have done that. I won’t do it again.”

Sally paused before replying, careful with her answer. “You did what you felt you needed to do. I’m not upset. I’m just glad you’re back and intact. You belong here.”

“Yeah,” he said with a hint of good humor, backing away slightly and turning toward her. “I belong right here.”

He moved in and planted his lips on hers. Worries melted away. This was his future. He wasn’t going to let the past change that.

* * *

 

**Lansing, Hostile Takeover Bank HQ, three days later…**

Chick sat in a deserted waiting room outside his agent’s office. He’d always liked coming to Lansing, as he was the local celebrity, but this visit was different. The luxurious room he sat in, adorned with mahogany floors, elegant bookcases, and black leather chairs, seemed cold. The droning of the complimentary television in the corner agitated him.

The news had been covering the story for days. Every couple hours a little more of the truth would come public, facts about the futures of the manufacturers, and what the conclusion of the war meant for the country. Chick gritted his teeth in anger. Those reporters kept talking about leadership and policy changes. They knew nothing. They didn’t know what he’d done for them. They didn’t know what had happened in the basement of that executive building. They didn’t know how high the stakes had been.

And they never would know. Chick searched the room for a remote, looking to change the channel or switch the television off, either would work. He couldn’t find it. With an irritated huff, he parked in one of the lush leather chairs and awaited his agent’s welcome without patience. The reporters carried on in the background.

“The thing that gets me, Kara,” a male news anchor said to his co-anchor. “No one saw this coming! All three major manufacturers stripped of their leadership at the same time?”

“If you’re asking me, I’m glad it ended the way it did,” the female reporter said, looking into the camera. “Out with the old, in with the new! The new CEOs are looking to change their policies to better align with each other, and to keep competition healthy. We just found out earlier today that the new leaders of the three companies have signed a peace treaty of sorts – an agreement that will prevent anything like this from happening in the future. If it’s ever breached, the government will be able to step in and do something about it at an official level. Thoughts, Jacob?”

“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” he answered, looking down at a piece of paper in front of him. “A quote from GM’s new chief executive officer – ‘We want what is best for all cars. That is not conflict. Makes and models and technical specifications do not define us. They never should.’ Sounds to me like they’re on the right track!”

“Agreed, now back to you, Carol…”

Chick sighed in relief as the sliding doors to his right opened. He looked over and saw his agent, who looked tired but eager as always to do business.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, pal,” the older Pontiac Fiero apologized. “Come on in!”

“Long time no see,” Chick said, taking his usual place on the other side of the sports car’s desk.

“You’re tellin’ me,” the Pontiac agreed in disbelief. “I swear I haven’t had a bit of time off since your win.”

“Ah, yeah,” Chick grinned smugly. “So tell me, Neil, my friend, where do I sign?”

Neil blinked. “Come again?”

“My deal with Dinoco!” Chick reminded him enthusiastically. “You know the deal. Winner gets a new sponsorship. You’ve got that all lined up, right?”

Neil broke eye contact and fiddled with a fake ink well on his desk. Chick realized what the hesitation implied. His enthusiasm deflated quite visibly. Neil sighed.

“They’re not offering you the sponsorship,” he explained. “I asked – begged! – them for it and got nothing but laughed at. Said you ‘didn’t have the morals of a Dinoco racer’. Believe me, I tried. I was ready to move into an office in Dinoco Tower down in Dallas and work for you from there, but it’s a no go for us, Chick. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Chick asked in nothing more than a whisper, “But – ”

“I’m sorry,” his agent repeated. “But I’m afraid that’s not the end of the bad news.”

Chick glared at the car he’d always considered a friend. Business with Neil often revolved around a few brews and some crude humor at the bars. He’d never actually been to the agent’s office before. He should have known.

Seeing he wasn’t getting a response, Neil bit the bullet and continued. “The bank lost nearly thirty percent of its business over the last couple weeks. Angry customers, you know how they are. They see something they don’t like and leave. Apparently that tiebreaker race angered a lot of people.”

“What?” Chick asked in a louder, more aggressive tone. “What do you mean? I won!”

Neil shrugged. “Not in the eyes of the customers, I don’t think. But anyway, I’m gonna cut to the chase here. Hostile Takeover is struggling to make ends meet. They don’t have the money to fund you anymore. You’re out of a sponsor. I am really, really sorry, man.”

Chick wanted to scream. To fight something. To do anything that would take his frustration out on anything that wasn’t him. Instead, he grew quiet and still.

“What do I do now?” he asked, facing the fact that the two things he’d ever known – racing and fighting – were now out of the question as career options.

Neil shot him a smile. “You didn’t think I’d call you all the way out here to just give you a bunch of bad news, did you? I got something I think you might like, given the circumstances. I know a guy over at RSN…”

* * *

 

**Auburn Hills, Chrysler HQ, a month later…**

“I’m glad you guys could make it. I would have called sooner, but everything’s just so hectic right now.”

Izzy backed out of the doorway to make room. Strip entered the revamped executive suite and looked around. Lynda followed close behind.

The office looked like a completely different room. The once barren walls were covered in art and tasteful décor. The wall of television monitors was gone, replaced with another window. A simple, organized desk with a computer monitor replaced at least six filing cabinets and a desk that at times looked more like a mound of papers.

Strip drove around the room in a circle, looking at everything before facing his sister again. She looked exhausted, but happy.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he told her.

“You have no idea,” she said. “But I think it’s going alright.”

“I still can’t believe he wanted you to be his successor,” Strip said, looking out a window at the scene below. Even in the December snow, Chrysler’s bustling headquarters was livelier than ever.

“Yeah, miss CEO,” Lynda added with a smile, “how’s it feel?”

“It feels like I’m not the least bit qualified,” Izzy answered with an honest laugh.

Strip smiled at her undying sense of humor and looked out toward the snow-covered war memorial below. There was a new monument next to the old one. It was a little smaller, and placed at an odd angle to the existing one. Strip knew that they’d buried Rick as close as they could to Stacey without regards to the landscaping crew’s distaste. It was the right thing to do.

“So, tell us all about it,” Lynda asked, settling in like she was awaiting some of the world’s best gossip. “We haven’t heard anythin’ more than what the news is goin’ on about.”

Izzy smiled. “That’s what I was hoping to tell you two all about. Figured it would just be easier to talk in person.”

“Well, we came all the way up here, have at it,” Strip encouraged, turning to face her.

“Where do I start?” Izzy asked herself, suddenly realizing that in her excitement she hadn’t structured her thoughts.

“Tell us about these other two guys that replaced Stephen and Paul, for starters.”

“Ah, right,” she said, jumping right in. “Ford’s system was a little weird. They had a designated successor all lined up and ready to go. He was their CFO, previously. I thought it was suspicious, thought that maybe he had the same intentions as Stephen, but turns out he’s cool. First thing he did when I met him for the first time was thank me for fighting. Said to extend the same gratitude to you, too, whoever you were. He knew something was wrong with Stephen, but I guess didn’t quite realize the extent of it. He was actually the one to propose the treaty.

“The GM guy, he was a little harder to win over. He thought that since I fought I shouldn’t lead. Too closely connected to the situation, y’know? But we convinced him otherwise. Used the excuse that I had a better understanding of what we want to avoid in the future. Also, it was none of his business to tell me what to do, so that was resolved pretty quickly.”

“So you’re all on the same page?” Lynda asked. “Everythin’s civil?”

“Yeah,” Izzy answered. “Civility was the common goal. We’re here to manufacture, nothing more. It’s time the business respected those boundaries.”

“Sounds like you got it all figured out,” Strip commended her.

“I’m glad you think so. I only know how to talk to others and reach agreements. I have no idea how to run a business.”

“I have a friend or two that might be able to help with that.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t believe him. “Your alcoholic friend and the cowboy? Hmm.”

“They’d be more than happy to help, Iz,” Strip explained. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”

She paused for a moment and thought about it. “Yeah, I know. And I don’t know if I wanna do this forever. I’ll get the company up and running again and make sure everything’s going the way it’s supposed to. Then I don’t know. I’ll stick around until I find someone worthy of the position, I guess. Someone I trust. But that’s all in the future. Right now, I have a job to do. I’m gonna do it right.”

Strip nodded in understanding. She’d spent her whole life at Rick’s side. She knew the ins and outs of the company better than anyone else, regardless of title. He’d picked her for a reason. He knew something about her that she didn’t realize herself. Strip could see it, too, though he didn’t know how to describe it.

“So how’s the kid?” she asked, referring to Lightning. “I haven’t seen or heard anything about him since we shipped him back to Arizona.”

Strip shrugged. “I guess he’s alright. Last I talked to him he said he was workin’ on building his racin’ headquarters out there. He’s stayin’ occupied. He’s got a good bunch of folks to take care of him.”

“Yeah, I think he’s takin’ it in stride,” Lynda added. “I heard from someone in town that he’s more open about it, and seems back to normal, more or less. Probably just took him some time to come to terms with it.”

“He’s a racer,” Strip explained. “He’s adaptable. I’m not worried about him.”

“That’s good to hear.” Izzy seemed genuinely relieved. “I was scared he’d drop off the face of the earth and go missing again.”

There was a comfortable silence for a moment as Izzy contemplated how to approach the next subject.

“What about you? Are you doing okay?” she asked her brother.

Strip looked surprised at the question. He glanced at Lynda out of habit and found her watching him. She knew how he’d taken it. While the long-term effects of the battle had been much better than the last time he’d come home after a rough fight, it wasn’t necessarily good. He’d had his fair share of quiet flashbacks over the last couple of weeks. He’d mourned Rick’s death appropriately, instead of keeping it all bottled up. He spent a lot of time thinking. He was dealing with it.

“I’ll be alright,” he answered. “Guess I’ve learned how to handle this sort of thing. Just trying to stay busy.”

Lynda came forward and parked next to him. She was proud of him for how he’d handled himself both during and after the fight. He’d managed to tell her the whole story this time around.

“What about you?” Lynda inquired. “You’ve been up here all by yourself.”

“Oh, well, the same, really,” she shrugged. “Staying busy. Keeping myself preoccupied. Trying to face the facts. Appreciating the little things.”

“As long as you take time for yourself,” Strip reminded her, knowing how easy it was for her to neglect herself in favor of work. “Don’t overdo it.”

“I’m working on that,” she promised with a smile. “Finally decided to do something I always wanted to.”

“What’s that?”

Izzy’s soft smile deepened into a more enthusiastic one. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.”

She led the two of them out her office door and down the hall. It was strange for Strip. The executive building used to be so desolate it often seemed like Rick was the only inhabitant. Now there were workers here and there, bustling about and doing their day job, unafraid of being out in the open in case of attack. The atmosphere of what he’d always considered the core of the company had changed drastically – for the better.

Izzy approached a door and stopped. She turned back to her guests.

“ _Shh._ Let this be a surprise.”

Strip and Lynda exchanged a suspicious glance. Neither one of them knew what Izzy had in store for them as she quietly nudged the door open.

The first sound Strip heard was the overenthusiastic voice of Darrell Cartrip, yelling something about “It’s too close to call!” Those words had forever been engrained in the mind of every Piston Cup racer and race fan. Izzy moved to the side and let him through to see. At his other side, Lynda sucked in a sharp breath of adoring surprise. Strip felt himself smile.

There, sitting in the room facing away from them, was a newly manufactured racecar. He had soft white paint, nearly gray. In front of him was a wide screen television tuned to RSN and replaying the past season’s highlights. It was their yearly special – four hours of the most memorable moments of the past year.

At the racecar’s side, several books lay stacked neatly on top of each other, bookmarks placed strategically throughout their pages. Strip recognized them. An assortment of manuals, autobiographies, and other racing lore. _Interesting_. The kid must have been old enough to read. He definitely seemed old enough to know what he wanted to do – _race_.

Strip looked at his sister. She was so happy. He’d never seen her look at anyone or anything the way she looked at this younger car. He gave her a playful bump in the fender with his front tire.

“You’ve been keepin’ secrets,” he accused her in a lighthearted tone.

She shrugged and grinned in absolute joy.

“You know I’ve daydreamed about this forever,” she reminded him quietly. “I found him, the oldest one that hadn’t been adopted yet. Couldn’t for the life of me understand why. He’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“What’s his name?” Lynda asked, barely containing herself.

Izzy smiled and looked over at her son. He was so glued to the television screen he hadn’t heard them talking.

She called out to him. “Hey, Cal! Why don’t you come meet your aunt and uncle?”

The racecar perked up at the sound of her voice and immediately turned to look behind him. Strip rolled forward a bit, Lynda keeping pace beside him.

Cal’s eyes widened at the decorated racer. His mouth dropped open and he rolled backwards, knocking a couple empty cans of oil over. He jumped at the noise and came to a halt. The television behind him replayed the three-way tie for what must have been the eleventh time since they’d entered the room. The kid’s attention snapped attentively from the Dinoco racer in the room with him to the replay on the screen. He blinked a few times as though he couldn’t believe what was happening and looked back at Strip. A huge lopsided grin crossed the kid’s face.

Strip smiled back at him and drove a little closer. “So, you wanna race, huh?”


End file.
